Authors: Marjorie Bowen
He had been followed to the Castle by Nicolas Murphy, who, in company with two soldiers of the Dumbarton regiment, had been brought off in a carriage and placed in the Castle’s guard-house. The leather merchant’s hands had been bound and the soldiers would not let him put his handkerchief to his face to wipe away the blood that was gushing from the wound made by Mr. Swann striking him in the face with the butt end of the pistol. Nor had he been allowed to drink a glass of wine that a neighbour offered him, Major Sirr breaking the glass as it was held forward, declaring ‘that wine was not fit for rebels.’ The soldiers took possession of Mr. Murphy’s house and began to wreck it. They rushed into the cellars and brought out all the bottles of wine they found there, breaking open the desks and bookcases, examining the clothes-press and plundering the house, the soldier’s wives running in to take up the linen and silver for themselves.
Not troubling to look for a corkscrew, the military smashed off the necks of the bottles of costly wines, then glutted, sent out what they could not drink in exchange for whisky.
In the attic where Lord Edward had lain, Pamela’s flowers, overturned in the struggle, lay withering in the dark, among the bloodstains on the floor.
*
Mr. Watson, Lord Campden’s private secretary, found Lord Edward leaning back on a couple of chairs in his office of the war department, with arm extended and supported by the surgeon, who was dressing his wound. He was very pale but serene. He had already been searched and his papers, including that which contained the map of the line of advance on Dublin, had been seized.
Mr. Watson, greatly moved, came forward quietly and in a low voice, so as not to be overheard, said that he had a commission from the Lord Lieutenant to treat him with every consideration, consistent with his being a state prisoner, and added delicately that he was going himself to break the intelligence to Lady Edward.
‘Your Lordship may trust,’ added the Englishman earnestly, ‘in my fidelity and secrecy, and — if there is any confidential communication, or any personal act of kindness in your service you wish done, I…well, I hope you’ll trust me, sir.’
The prisoner looked collectedly at the speaker and bent his head as if in acknowledgement of this courtesy.
‘No, no, thank you. Nothing, nothing. Only break it to her tenderly.’
‘I hope, sir,’ continued Mr. Watson, ‘that you’ll give Lord Campden no blame for this unfortunate affair. Indeed, he asked me to assure you that every courtesy shall be shown. I’m sure I speak for Lord Castlereagh too. I know that these gentlemen have only regretted that you have not before, sir, left Dublin.’
‘If I had done so,’ whispered Lord Edward faintly, ‘I should be the one who would be now full of regret.’
The surgeon who had bandaged the arm remarked: ‘The wound is not dangerous.’
Lord Edward lifted his dark eyes and said: ‘I’m sorry to hear that!’ Then he glanced at the surgeon, who was Mr. Stewart, the Viceroy’s surgeon-general, and then at Mr. Watson, who was gazing at him with compassion, and said:
‘Pray thank Lord Campden and Lord Castlereagh, all who may be concerned in me, for their civility.’
He paused, then making an effort over his great weakness, said:
‘I would rather go to Newgate with the felons — and my fellows — than have any peculiar favours. Indeed, sir, do you suppose that it will matter to me where I house?’
With that he leant back against the two chairs and closed his eyes, and it was impossible for them to say whether he was conscious or not, but the surgeon heard him mutter: ‘I have broken my promise to Pamela, about Kildare —’
Apart from the wound in his shoulder, he was badly bruised in the struggle, and there was a gash on the back of his neck which caused him much discomfort.
When Mr. Watson Went down the Castle steps on his errand to Lady Edward Fitzgerald (for he intended no other to take this message) he heard that the magistrates had claimed Lord Edward on account of his wounding their people and that he was therefore to be taken out of the jurisdiction of Lord Campden and lodged in the common prison at Newgate.
Mr. Watson was also warned that however compassionate he might feel towards Lady Edward, and however delicately Lord Campden wished to behave towards her, there was an order in Privy Council that she should within twenty-four hours leave Ireland.
The government held, and had for long held, strong and undeniable proof of treason on the part of her husband. The papers found on him were not needed to show that he had planned a revolution.
On the news of the arrest of the National leader, despairing revolts, like convulsions of agony, broke out in Ireland, provoking violent reprisals. Flames flared out from castle and farm and were only quenched when the ruins afforded nothing that would burn. Shrieks and cries rose and were only stifled when the life that had uttered them was stiff and rotting. Dublin was lit by the flare of rebel property burnt in the streets, by the glow of destroyed houses. Above a countryside laid waste the springdecked trees bent their boughs beneath a burden of dead men. In the streets of the broken villages the people knelt, with bowed heads, while their fellows were scourged by the soldiery.
In Lord Castlereagh’s office in the Castle, Mr. Hanlon carefully entered in his account books of the secret service:
May
20
th
, 1798 — Mr.
Thomas
Reynolds
,
by
desire
of
Lord
Castlereagh
,
one
thousand
pounds
(£1000.)
On a mild, sweet morning, Pamela, half deranged by misery, affectionately attended by Lady Louise Conolly, took the packet for Holyhead. Her desperate appeal to be allowed to share her husband’s prison had been refused — she was banished from Ireland, and with her children was to take refuge with the Duke of Richmond in London. She had her baby, of a few weeks old, in her arms, and said little to the earnest solicitude of Lady Louise, who desperately tried to give her ease and comfort. Pamela merely whispered: ‘They might have let me go to him.’ Then, once, and very wildly: ‘I believe that I shall never see Ireland again!’
Tony did not accompany his mistress. The slave lay dying in Denzel Street. Since his master’s arrest he had lain with his face turned to the wall and refused food or drink.
*
In the shortest possible time after the news of his brother’s arrest, Lord Henry Fitzgerald arrived in Dublin. Devoted and affectionate as the Fitzgeralds were, the devotion and affection between these two brothers was of a particular intensity. Lord Henry had gone to the Duke of Portland and demanded an order to share Edward’s prison. The minister had courteously pointed out that as Lord Edward had not been arrested on his warrant, it was impossible for him to grant this favour. Both the Prince of Wales and the Duke of York were friends of the Leinsters and warmly sympathetic towards Lord Edward, but affairs being as they were in Ireland, and the King against concession, it was impossible for the moment to interfere, and all Lord Henry’s passionate endeavour could achieve was a promise that the royal brothers would use all their influence for a postponement of the trial until matters should be quieter in Ireland.
Lord Henry was maddened, on his arrival in Dublin, by the refusal of all to grant him permission to see his brother, who still lay in the grated room in Newgate, without one of his relatives being allowed to see him. The infuriated Irishman forced his way into the presence of Lord Clare, who told him dryly: ‘None of the prisoners is to see friends, the reasons are such as even Lord Henry in his cooler moments would approve, that it was true that Mrs. Emmett had got in to her husband but that was by error and such a case would not occur again. Lord Edward was going on very well, the wound healing tolerably, though the balls were not yet out, but as for Ryan, the man whom he had stabbed, his life was despaired of.’
‘Even if Ryan dies,’ said Lord Henry, ‘I suppose it will only be a trial for manslaughter?’
‘I think, whether he dies or not,’ replied the Lord Chancellor, ‘it will be a trial for high treason. I am sorry, Lord Henry. I did what I could for your brother, but he is one of those who rush to their fate. Now it is no longer in my hands.’
Lord Henry met the same response from Castlereagh, who, mild and courteous, as if feeling really concerned, yet declared that it was not in his power to show the least indulgence to Lord Edward Fitzgerald. He said he must lie in prison till he stood his trial, but he advised the Fitzgeralds to use all possible influence at the English court, to have in readiness an instant pardon from the King. ‘To avoid,’ added his Lordship smoothly, ‘the very worst occurring.’
Stung almost to a frenzy of agony, Henry waited on Lord Campden, only obtaining an audience after several vexatious delays and difficulties.
Lord Campden was a humane, good-natured man, who always voted for tolerance and mercy, and endeavoured to employ soft measures, but he was completely overruled by others. He allowed his policy to be dictated to him by Clare and Castlereagh; he bowed to what he considered ‘emergencies of the moment,’ and he let much of which he strongly disapproved be done in his name.
It was therefore with a good deal of embarrassment and almost distress that he received Lord Henry, who, with that kind of warm, generous violence that was characteristic of the Fitzgeralds, threw himself at once into the subject.
‘My Lord, I have no time to waste. I speak tormented with the thought of a brother ill, perhaps dying, in prison — in a felon’s prison.’
‘My Lord,’ began Campden, nervously wiping his lips with his handkerchief, ‘I am deeply compassionate for your unfortunate situation.’
‘I am not the only one,’ interrupted Lord Henry. ‘I think of my mother, my uncles, my sisters, that unhappy lady, Edward’s wife, cast out of the country with her young family, for Leinster, so humiliated by the way his appeals have been ignored. Sir, I have so many wrongs and miseries filling my heart that I scarce know where to begin my appeal!’
‘You are aware, sir,’ replied Campden, with increasing embarrassment, ‘that you speak to a man who can do little or nothing?’
‘I speak to the Viceroy of Ireland, sir, the representative of the King of England, and, after all, I do not come to ask much, merely permission to visit my brother, to stay with him while he is ill, in danger, perhaps, of his life.’
‘I cannot give it to you,’ said Campden, with the irritation of a weak man pushed to extremities. ‘I have promised I will be firm. The country is in an appalling state. Even with military law, we can scarcely keep the people down.’
‘You do not need to tell me that,’ replied Henry Fitzgerald. ‘Even Moore and Abercrombie sicken at the work they do. But I must not speak of that, no, nor think of it. I only ask to be allowed to see my brother in Newgate — his wife was denied that privilege, sir. She had to leave the country without speaking to him again, and I believe for weeks they have not met, and then only in secret, and she with her child just born —’
‘Indeed, Lord Henry, you need not seek to emphasise to me the horrors and miseries of this case. But your brother has been imprudent — seduced and then betrayed by bad friends.’
‘Let us leave that out of it, sir,’ cried Lord Henry hotly, ‘or I may say that which will throw me in Newgate too. I am an Irishman.’
‘I remember that,’ replied Campden, ‘and make allowances for much. Do you think that this is pleasant for me?’
‘I fear, my Lord, I do not care whether it is pleasant for you or not. You have the power; with a word, you could grant me my request.’
‘You exaggerate, sir, I have not the power. Indeed,’ said Campden, ‘I am sorry that I saw your Lordship, for this can be merely distressing to us both. You should apply to the Lord Chancellor, or Lord Castlereagh, they have this matter in hand.’
‘Sir, I have applied to them and been refused. I now apply to you. I have not begged for anything before ever in my life, nor, ever asked a favour. But here I do beg and do ask a favour. Sir, my brother has not even a room to himself. Soldiers stay with him, night and day. He lacks everything, even fruit — and there was a piece of cruelty which I can scarce bear to mention. They hanged a man, one Clinch, in front of his window. He heard the noise and asked what it was. Mr. Stone, who was put with him, told me.’ Lord Henry turned aside abruptly and a spasm passed over the amiable face of Lord Campden.
‘That was wrong, it should not have been; it must not happen again,’ he muttered in considerable agitation.
‘Aye, my Lord, so you say now — too late! So Castlereagh said, but it happened! He was allowed to hear, too, that Ryan, the poor man he wounded, had died. That affected him. I believe he has been out of his mind. He is never alone. He has no news of his wife, his family. He does not see one friendly face. Sir, he is in the grated room at Newgate.’
Campden did not answer. He nervously tapped on the tortoiseshell table in front of him and bit his lip.
‘You did not know my brother, sir,’ continued Lord Henry, turning towards the Viceroy, tears in his eyes, and looking, in a way that was very moving to the Viceroy, so much like the man for whom he pleaded. ‘He is no common being, so brave, and so reckless, so unsuspicious, aye, if he had not been, he had not been in Newgate now. He certainly was betrayed, most foully betrayed. I say he is no common being, tender as a woman, most compassionate, most amiable, most sensitive.’
‘Such a man as that,’ muttered Campden, ‘should not have undertaken what your brother did.’
‘That was part of his character, sir, to feel for the oppressed, to stake his all on what he at least thought was a high cause. Think, sir, he had a beautiful wife, and loving children and every means of promotion and advancement in the English Government, and he was a man who valued all these things — who loved life and was cheerful — and he threw it aside —’
Campden shook his head. ‘I can’t help you. I can’t do anything.’
‘Oh, my Lord, how could you bring yourself to say those words?’ cried Lord Henry, flushing with the deepest scorn. ‘With a word you can do it! What are you afraid of? I tell you the Prince and Duke of York are both my friends, they have wished me well —’
‘But the Princes are not in Ireland,’ cried Campden distractedly. ‘I would to God I were not! Was there ever any man sent in my place who has not wished himself out of it? They say they’re sending Cornwallis. I would he were here. Don’t you see, sir, I can’t give any concessions to any one?’
‘I’m not to see my brother?’ asked Lord Henry through pale, strained lips; ‘after I’ve come here, humiliated myself, begged as I’ve never begged before, as I told you? I’ll do what you wish, I’ll promise anything. I’ll undertake to remain in Newgate till he’s brought to trial, to sleep in his cell — anything, if that will satisfy you.’
Campden rose. He was trembling, his agitation was as great as that of the man who importuned him with these desperate entreaties.
‘I can’t do it, my Lord. All I can say is that if your brother is dying, if the surgeon says his hours are really numbered, then perhaps you may go to him.’
Lord Henry stood for a moment motionless, fighting for control. In a voice made expressionless by his effort to keep it steady, he said at length: ‘My brother made his will the other day. He was not allowed to see his lawyer, a young man whom he liked and trusted. The paper had to go in and out of the prison by the hands of the doctor, and yet a stranger, this poor man Murphy’s landlord, was allowed to go in and look at Edward out of curiosity. This man, sir, went to visit his tenant in prison, on a question of the lease, and got quite easily the papers signed by Lord Clare allowing him to go in and look at my brother. He found him with two ill-looking fellows of Beresford’s regiment, with drawn swords standing by his bed.’
‘Sir, there is no need to go into this,’ sighed Lord Campden, again wiping his lips. ‘I know nothing of it. You must ask Lord Clare.’
‘Listen, sir, to what I have to tell you. He saw my poor brother lying there. He spoke to him, and Edward said: “Have you been in to Murphy? How is poor Murphy’s face?” His voice was very weak, but his wits must have been collected, for he remembered the blow he had seen Murphy given by Swann’s pistol.’
‘Lord Henry,’ cried Campden, with sudden firmness, ‘you torture yourself for nothing. It is useless to run all over this. I cannot give you permission to see your brother.’
He rang the bell that stood on his desk, and summoned his secretary.
Lord Henry, fearful that he might be provoked to violence, with an almost mechanical effort, made a brief salutation and left the Castle.