Authors: Marjorie Bowen
Thomas Reynolds, who had not seen Lord Edward for some time, was deputed to take to him the news of a successful meeting of the United Irishmen and to assure him that everything was, as far as human foresight could tell, in train for the explosion of the revolution.
Reynolds had been, for some time, unaware of the hiding-places of Lord Edward, so quickly was the Irish leader moved by his friends from one house to another.
The informer had not dared show too much anxiety as to Edward Fitzgerald’s whereabouts. He knew himself suspected, and though he had outfaced these doubts, taken oaths as to his fidelity and even evaded the assassination prepared for him by some more vehement and suspicious member of the organisation, he still went warily.
As he proceeded to the house of Mr. Murphy, a leather merchant, where Fitzgerald had lately moved, a placard newly pasted on the wall of a barracks took his attention. He stopped to read it. It was an offer of a thousand pounds reward for the apprehension of Lord Edward Fitzgerald.
Reynolds paused for a moment, shut his lips closely, cast down his eyes, reflected, then hastened on his way.
He found Mr. Murphy in a state of considerable agitation. He, too, had just heard of the proclamation, and made no disguise that if he had known of it he would have hesitated to give Lord Edward shelter. The thought of the soldiery being let loose on his house was more than the unfortunate merchant could contemplate with equanimity. He told Reynolds, too, as he received him in the carefully shuttered parlour, that Lord Edward Fitzgerald and two of his friends had had a brush with the town major, Sirr, the other day when he had been endeavouring to go to Moira House to see his wife, who stayed much with Lady Moira. There had actually been a struggle in a dark alley, the snapping of pistols. Fitzgerald had got away, so had Lawless, but they had left behind M’Cabe in the hands of the police.
He, adroitly enough, had given himself out to be a muslin merchant from Scotland and so been allowed to escape. ‘But the whole affair is disquieting,’ added Murphy. ‘I can’t say I care to share Bond’s fate.’
‘Lord Edward is imprudent, no doubt,’ smiled Reynolds, ‘yet for several weeks he has been safely concealed in the capital, and even his own friends, as I surely believe, think him in England or France. Therefore do not disturb yourself, my dear sir. Allow me instantly to go his Lordship.’
But Mr. Murphy was full of anxiety. He could not stop speaking. ‘My Lord will often entertain as many as six people to dinner, and allows himself to be frequently visited by Mr. Thomas Neilson, one of the most imprudent of men, who comes openly, without any disguise, to see him, in broad daylight too. God save us!’
‘But there has been nothing to make you think any one suspects my Lord to be in Dublin?’
‘I don’t know! A thousand pounds is a lot of money! And only the other day, Mr. Reynolds, he and Mr. Lawless, thinking they were followed along the canal in Thomas Street, lay down in the ditch in thick mud! Then, with Thomas Neilson for company, he went to reconnoitre the line of his proposed advance on the Kildare side of Dublin, you know, to mark out the route on the map which he keeps in his pocket. He was then, at Palmerston’s, stopped and questioned by a party of soldiers. He was well concealed, however, in his cloak and his wig, and with great adroitness made himself out to be a surgeon on his way to visit a man seriously injured, whereupon he and Neilson were allowed to proceed — a near thing each time, Mr. Reynolds!’
When the informer was conducted to the small attic room occupied by Lord Edward, he found him reclining in an easy-chair with, for him, an uncommon look of fatigue.
Reynolds thought him much changed since he had seen him last. He seemed ill and flushed, and complained of a chill or fever which he believed he had taken perhaps from lying in the wet ditch and not being able to change his clothes quickly enough on a night of a cold wind. But his spirits seemed still high, and he greeted Reynolds enthusiastically, and listened with the greatest pleasure to the message that gentleman brought him from the last meeting of the Executive of the United Irishmen. At last, in a few days’ time, Lord Edward was to go to Leinster, from there to raise his standard, the green Irish standard, while the forces available in Dublin, Wicklow and Kildare would join him in an advance on the capital, where they would take by surprise the camp and the artillery at Chapelizod. At both of these places they were assured of a large number of the Irish soldiery going over to them. After this had been accomplished the insurgents were to march on the capital, seize the Castle, the person of the Lord Lieutenant, and all the members of the Government in Dublin…
Fitzgerald listened with delight to this report, the while he looked at a large cluster of spring flowers, lilacs, jonquils, jasmine and mignonette that stood in a drinking-glass beside him. Mr. Reynolds guessed that these flowers came from Pamela, and had been grown in the garden of the cottage at Kildare.
‘They told me you were in want of money, my Lord,’ said Reynolds. ‘I have made bold to give you fifty guineas.’ He took the packets of gold out of his pocket and laid them down on the table before Lord Edward. ‘I gave fifty guineas also to my Lady.’
Lord Edward took the gold, wrote a receipt for it, and thanked the other warmly for his thoughtfulness. Reynolds then put a case of pistols with a mould for casting bullets beside the money.
‘And I was begged to let you have these and tell you that your uniform would be delivered here to-night.’
‘Let it be indeed to-night, and I do not intend to stay here long. Poor Murphy is plainly disturbed, and I cannot find it on my conscience to put any one long in such uneasiness.’
‘But where will you go?’ asked Reynolds, careful to keep any peculiar eagerness out of his voice.
‘The M’Cormicks’, or back to Mrs. Grant’s. I have many hiding-places in Dublin, and I let my friends choose which I shall go to next. Be assured that you will know as soon as any where I am. But let us hope that when we next meet,’ he added, with a warmth in his dark eyes, ‘there will be no need for any further secrecy.’
He thanked Reynolds again, and in most affectionate terms for his kind thought about the money. He had, indeed, been straitened.
‘I will give,’ said Reynolds, ‘Lady Edward another fifty guineas in the course of a few days.’
‘How is she?’ interrupted Lord Edward, rising and pacing up and down the low room. ‘I tried to see her at Moira House, but there was a scuffle on the way and I judged it prudent not to go, lest I was followed.’
‘She seemed very well and cheerful. Happy with the children and confident. She gave me this.’ He put his hand in his pocket and drew out on his palm a small ring.
‘I told her I might be watched, as I believe I am, and not able to see her again, but would write to her in that case, and she said she would not attend to any letter purporting to come from me unless it was sealed with this ring.’
‘Let me look at the ring.’
It was a small red cornelian engraved with the figure of a dancing satyr.
‘I remember it,’ said Lord Edward abruptly, and turned away. There was no reason for Thomas Reynolds to remain longer, yet he hesitated, fingering his gloves, his cane, his hat, turning his curious, hard face directly towards the other man.
‘You know there’s a thousand pounds reward offered for your taking up, Lord Edward?’
‘Yes, I know; it makes little difference. I have none but loyal friends.’
‘You have loyal friends who would very gladly get your Lordship down to the coast, and find a boat and get you out of the country.’
‘No more of that. It vexes me, indeed it does. I’d never think of going.’
Mr. Reynolds said coldly:
‘Lord Edward Fitzgerald’s at the house of Mr. Nicholas Murphy, No. 153 Thomas Street. He’ll be there all to-day and to-night, but probably gone, and I shan’t know where, to-morrow.’
‘I can rely on this?’ asked Mr. Hanlon.
‘I suppose,’ said Reynolds with a sneer, ‘you can send a posse of soldiers to see if it be true?’
‘I will do so immediately.’
Reynolds, who had remained standing, holding his hat in his hand, said: ‘I have had to supply fifty guineas to Lord Edward and another fifty to his wife. I have spent nine pounds on a case of pistols. I hope that will be remembered in my expenses.’
Mr. Hanlon looked at him very curiously.
‘You shall certainly not be out of pocket for your generosity, Mr. Reynolds, but may I ask why it was necessary to go to these lengths?’
‘Merely to lull suspicion. I do not — and remember I have the government’s word on this — wish to appear in this affair, at least till Lord Edward is arrested and the whole plot blown over.’
*
Mr. Murphy, whose apprehension was roused to a dreadful pitch, ran up to tell Lord Edward that he had seen a guard of Hessians pass down the street and after them the town major, Sirr, with a posse of police, going to make a search of Mr. Moore’s house at the Yellow Lion in Thomas Street, and he immediately suggested that he should get up on the roof and lie down between the gables of the warehouses. Half laughing, half sighing, Fitzgerald obeyed, and presently came down, after the alarm proved false, complaining, in an amused tone, of the grime on his clothes.
‘There’s little matter for that, my Lord,’ said Murphy, ‘for there’s a fine new suit come for you. A woman just left a bundle, and said I was to give it to you. She told me she came from Mrs. Moore.’
‘That will be my uniform.’
He and Murphy opened the bundle in the attic bedroom, where the flowers from Kildare still perfumed the close air. It contained a uniform of a clear green colour heavily braided down the front, with rose-coloured cuffs and a cape. This was a long-skirted coat, vest and pantaloons. There was also a short jacket and a pair of trousers that buttoned from the hip to the ankle with thick black Spanish leather on the sides and a sugar-loaf cap, green and crimson with a large tassel. Fitzgerald looked with pleasure and Murphy with dismay as these bright, beautiful clothes were displayed.
‘Oh, God, sir, you’d better get these out of the way!’
‘I suppose I had till the moment comes to wear them,’ agreed Fitzgerald reluctantly. ‘Take them and conceal them.’
Murphy needed no further urging. He threw the uniforms into the cloth that had concealed them when the woman had carried them through the streets, ran upstairs with them into the warehouse, and threw them under some goatskins, which smelt so offensively that he believed it would prevent any from approaching them.
The soldiers were still searching Mr. Moore’s house, but there seemed no suspicion thrown on that of Mr. Murphy, so Lord Edward came down at his usual time and dined with his host and Thomas Neilson. It was then about four o’clock and everything was quiet, save that a party of Dumbarton Fencibles passed rapidly up Thomas Street. Nicolas Murphy, prying from the window, thought that he saw Mr. Swann, the magistrate who had made the arrests at Bond’s, in their company, but could not be sure of this. But when these had gone all was silent, and the acute fears of the leather merchant were something allayed. Yet the meal was largely silent, despite Lord Edward’s efforts at cheerfulness and his earnest, eager talk of an immediate rising.
Contrary to his custom, for he seldom took wine, he drank some sherry with whey in it for his feverish chill which was heavy on him, then went upstairs, saying he would lie down for a while.
Neilson went out into the street and most imprudently, thought Nicolas Murphy, walked up and down before the house, as if keeping watch, continually rapping the door and looking in and saying: ‘Is he safe? You had best be cautious!’ till Murphy, in terror, bade him be gone and not compromise him by his imprudence.
*
Edward Fitzgerald, when he threw himself on the bed in the attic, fell into a drowsy musing, produced by the fatigue of nervous strain, the slight fever he had, and the strong hot wine to which he was totally unaccustomed. The May evening was warm, almost heavy, yet he felt himself shivering, and drew the cotton coverlet over him on the narrow bed where he lay. Then in a while he was burning hot. He threw off not only the quilt but his coat, and lay there in his shirt and trousers. It seemed as if he was sinking away from reality and instinctively he put his hand to his hip-pocket where he had his papers — the plan of his march from Leinster to Dublin; the plans of the Castle; the lists of men and money, as if he would preserve these from being lost in the oblivion into which he was falling.
He stretched his hand, with the same instinctive anxiety, to the small table beside him on which lay the gold that Reynolds had left. The pistols and the mould for making bullets were downstairs. He recalled vaguely that he was unarmed, and sat up, fighting with his sleepiness, and took out a pocket knife from his coat, with a water-waved blade and a coarse buck handle, and put this down ready to his hand among the gold pieces.
Then he lay back with a sigh, at ease, and lost all sense of where he was; this small attic in a stranger’s house and all the pressing and anxious details of his great enterprise became dim to him, and he was stalked, like an unsuspecting prey, by long-evaded dreams.
He was back again in the Orangery in the Château D’Aubignè. He was building a fort. It had a likeness to the Castle of Dublin. He was putting a flag above the fort, a green flag with a harp, and a wretched, crouching, deformed slave was imploring him for help; and it was Tony, and he moved his hands uneasily — he felt the creature’s lips and tears on his hand. There was Louise with the nectarines in her arms and then again is was not Louise but Pamela, and then neither. It was a dead woman with pale hair which fell over a blue cushion. He moved, stirred, and moaned. A familiar voice brought him painfully back to the present moment. Mr. Murphy was in the doorway and nervously asked him if he would like some tea.
‘No, no, indeed, I will have nothing more. What o’clock is it?’
‘It is about seven o’clock, my Lord.’
‘What, have I lain here so long?’
‘It will do your lordship good, you don’t look very well.’
‘No, that’s true, my head’s heavy. I believe I have a touch of fever, but it’s nothing, it will pass by the morning. Could you not bring that uniform up, Murphy? It will be safe enough here. What did you do with it?’
Mr. Murphy muttered ‘that that uniform was one of those things best hidden away.’
‘You’re very fearful, Murphy.’
Lord Edward smiled in a kindly fashion. He sat up in the bed, pressing his heavy forehead with his hot hand. ‘I quite understand I had no right to come here. I’ll go to-morrow. Let me sleep a little longer now.’
‘Well, my Lord, if you feel disposed to take any tea, there’ll be some served in the back drawing-room in a few moments.’
‘I’ll come down if I’m awake.’
Nicolas Murphy left the room, from which the sunlight was fading, yet every object in the attic was oppressively clear to Lord Edward, who turned his face away on the pillow and tried to find refuge again in his dreams.
‘Pamela, if I could have but seen her again — that’s hard — not to see her. If I could have got to Moira House that night. I’ve not been fair to Pamela. Pamela and her baby. That little boy at Mrs. Grant’s whom I used to walk along the canals with at night, he was a sweet fellow. I promised him to root up the orange lilies at the bottom of the garden. How charming when my Edward is that age! O God! I promised Pamela that she would be happy again, that we should return to Kildare! How dare I do that? Her flowers are fading. I wonder will she send me more? The cottage should look charming now.’
He could not raise his spirits for his own consolation, though he had seemed so cheerful before his friends. ‘This is a wretched life to live — skulking away like this. Poor Murphy is badly frightened. I must leave here tomorrow. One feels like a malefactor — hiding like this.’
For weeks he had been hunted, and now there was a price on his head… All his eager courage could not wholly cast off depression. He sank into a half-feverish stupor. He was a small boy running through the large deserted Orangery, past the tapestry, out on to the smooth lawns along the banks of the Garonne, pursued by those monstrous shapes that torment childhood, demons that have neither name nor form.
He thought he had not only to evade these terrors for his own safety’s sake but for that of Louise and the Negro, both of whom must in some way be protected by his reaching them. He saw himself, in this dream, straining every nerve, running through a strange twilight, yet across familiar scenes. Then they were upon him, the hideous pursuer’s footsteps sounded loudly in his ears. He gave a cry and a convulsive movement, a leap into a void, across which Louise, with a frightful smile, pointing to a bloody throat, beckoned. He roused himself by a despairing effort of the will and found himself in the darkening attic seated on the hard bed. For a second reality was like a vision before his eyes, then he was able to focus Nicolas Murphy, his face a greenish pallor, standing in the doorway, behind him two strangers and then a man in a soldier’s jacket wearing a round hat with a sword in his hand.
Instantaneously Fitzgerald saw the two men prepare to hurl themselves upon him and Murphy step in front of them. One of them then thrust a pistol violently in the leather merchant’s face and called out to the soldiers in the doorway to ‘hold him.’
At this, Fitzgerald, with a leap like a tiger, hurled himself on his two assailants, a sword was thrust at his breast, but bending, only cast him backwards on the bed. He snatched up the pen-knife lying on the side table with a movement that sent the gold rolling all over the floor. The three men struggled together, Fitzgerald casting off both the others and wounding them with repeated blows from his single weapon.
Mr. Swann, from the doorway, fired his pistol but without effect. He then called loudly from the open door.
‘They are murdering Lord Edward!’ cried Murphy, struggling with the soldiers who had him in custody. At this the magistrate struck him under the eye with the pistol and told the soldiers to take him down to the yard. Fitzgerald had freed himself from his captors; one was at his feet groaning, one sprawling on the bed, his shirt all bloody, his eyes wild. His penknife in his hand he plunged towards the door as the town major, Sirr, appeared in it. This last took deliberate aim with his pistol and wounded Lord Edward in the shoulder, so that he fell back again on the bed. At that Major Sirr’s reinforcements rushed at him, but he was instantly on his feet, and had them all flung off save one, who clung to him but could not stay him such was his frantic strength and desperate resolution as he struggled towards the door. The stairs were full of soldiery. Seeing Fitzgerald’s furious endeavours to escape, these laid their matchlocks across the stairway and thus prevented his progress, but he continued to struggle even when they had overpowered him and were dragging him towards the door. His shirt was torn off his back, and the blood was trickling from his wounded arm. The soldiers, nettled by his resistance, handled him very roughly, and half threw him, half pulled him to the door where a sedan chair with an open top waited in the warm twilight; an escort of Dumbarton Fencibles with drawn swords about it. Sirr, with a cold and gloating look, followed his prisoner and looked at him where he leant between two of his captors, suddenly exhausted and drooping.
‘You’ll be sorry for this violence, my Lord. I have a warrant for your arrest.’
‘You did not tell me that,’ gasped Fitzgerald, ‘and it is natural for a man to defend himself when seized by surprise.’
He spoke calmly, steadily, though in a faint voice. He was helped into a chair, a greatcoat flung round him. The blood from his arm was staining both his shirt and breeches, and his pallor was ghastly. Mr. Swann suggested that a surgeon should be instantly sent for.
‘We will take him to the Castle,’ replied the town major.
But the magistrate objected that since he had made an attack on his people, and, as it seemed likely, mortally wounded one of them, Ryan, the man who had first fallen on him, it was more fitting that he should be lodged in Newgate.
Sirr objected that Lord Campden had had a room prepared for him at the Castle. Fitzgerald, through his agony, heard this, and whispered:
‘So — you did not come by chance? I was betrayed!’
‘Sir, an information was laid.’
‘Who? Who?’
They did not answer this, but continued their argument as to where their prisoner should be lodged.
‘Take me to Newgate,’ gasped the wounded man. ‘I don’t want to go to the Castle when Bond and the others are in Newgate.’
Major Sirr, however, decided that this important prisoner had best be taken to Lord Campden, so Lord Fitzgerald was carried in the chair to the Castle. He did not speak during the journey, nor when they helped him out and brought him into the room of Lord Campden’s secretary.