The Patriot's Fate (25 page)

The only time he could remember making a statement that entailed even a degree of commitment was at his first communion. That had been well over ten years ago when he was hardly at an age to make a reasoned choice. But this was a different story; the oath they were standing in line to swear was fundamental and far reaching. In a few carefully chosen sentences it totally revoked any loyalty he might have to his British friends, and allied him to a cause that he was not completely in favour of. More than that; despite any soft words to the contrary, Crowley knew he would be under a holy pledge to fight for that cause to the death. And it was a death that seemed increasingly likely in the current circumstances.

Doyle had finished now. He handed his groat to Walsh – another part of the proceedings that Crowley was unhappy about – and shuffled off to join the men waiting for breakfast. Tone was there, watching quietly from under the larboard gangway with one of the French military officers by his side. It would soon be over; Crowley had engineered himself the last place and was well aware that only MacArthur stood ahead of him, as Doherty began to say his piece. He looked about, eager for some distraction or emergency that might provide deliverance at the final moment, while wondering vaguely if the introduction of a false middle name, or even a subtle changing of the words would go unnoticed. But it was futile. He was too well known to his friends, and the lines had already been spoken so many times that the rote would have been ingrained on every man present. Doherty was coming to a close now, and in only a matter of minutes it would be his turn.

“Or give evidence against, any member or members of this or similar societies…”

The old fool was obediently repeating the phrases in a solid monotone that was tiresome to listen to. He reached the end, and felt in his pocket for the money, then there would only be MacArthur. Crowley waited, trying to resign himself to what was to come, when MacArthur failed to step forward.

There was a brief moment of confusion before Walsh lost his expression of bored compliance, and glared over in their direction.

“You’re next,” he grumbled, as keen to see his breakfast as any man present, but MacArthur simply shook his head.

“I will not swear,” he said, in a soft voice that might just as easily have been declining a second portion of plum duff. “I’ll serve, and I’ll fight, but I have a conscience and a faith. More than that, I have read my Bible and know that what you do is wrong.”

Tone immediately drew away from the Frenchman; this was a private problem, and only of concern to the Irish.

“Your oaths are not for me,” MacArthur clarified. “I have already made all the commitment necessary by being here.”

“This is to bind us together,” Walsh said. “To unite us all in one common brotherhood.”

“And you need an oath for that? We are Irish: it ought to be enough.” There was a smattering of laughter, and Walsh looked uncomfortably to Tone. “We are here, in another nation’s warship,” MacArthur continued, speaking up and to the crowd. “Sailing to fight against the English who have taken our land. There is no way out for us, no quick retreat; it isn’t as if we can get out and walk.”

Now the laughter was fuller and more general, and several small conversations had struck up, clearly in support of MacArthur.

“You speak of bonding together men of different faiths; well, my faith tells me that swearing and oaths are forbidden. In the book of Matthew, our Lord said ‘swear not at all’. His word is good enough for me, and if you mistrust us so much, it is a wonder we have been brought so far.”

There was silence now, and the atmosphere had grown tense. All looked to Tone, who actually appeared momentarily at a loss. Despite the call for toleration of religion, he was known to have a poor view of Papists, and was even suspected by some of having no faith at all. Then Tone moved forward and gave a grin that Crowley found frighteningly casual.
 

“If I may speak for a moment as a lawyer,” he said, stepping into the centre of the deck. “And I can assure you that my opinion here will not cost a penny…” There was polite, but expectant, laughter: every man present was waiting to hear what he had to say.
 

“What you are taking now is not an oath at all, but an affirmation.” MacArthur looked at him doubtfully and Tone continued, addressing the entire company as much as any one man. “It may have been called an oath, and God is certainly mentioned, but that is just for simple folk. Clever men, like MacArthur here, know the difference, though it is strange that he has not listened to the words carefully to have realised; Lord knows we have all heard them often enough.”

Now the humour was more on his side, and he rode the wave with ease.

“Any one of you can take this vow, knowing in full it will not contradict your beliefs, religious or otherwise. Indeed, when I drew up the pledge, that was very much on my mind. And I would like to state yet again that the union of affection does not seek to discriminate, or disconcert any man or his faith.” He turned back to MacArthur. “So now that you know; now that I have explained, will you affirm?” he asked.

“I will indeed,” MacArthur said. “I should have no problem with that at all, now why would I?”

Tone nodded at Walsh who began to read once more. Crowley breathed a deep sigh of relief, conscious and eternally grateful for the last minute reprieve. An affirmation was totally different from a holy oath and, as far as he was concerned, did not contain any obligation that a man might worry about breaking. MacArthur was repeating the words obediently enough, having no trouble with any of the commitments or obligations they contained. And neither, Crowley decided, would he.

* * *

“No bottom, no bottom with this line.”

Fraiser had been right, the sound had an excellent depth and would provide a first rate anchorage. They were considerably past Arranmore Island, and could shelter in its lee, whilst being close enough to both it and the mainland for a landing. The current also ran helpfully against them:
Scylla
was barely creeping forward under topsails alone, and could be halted at any moment.

“By the mark, fifteen.”

That was more like it. The ship nosed forward a little further as the leadsman began to spin the line for another cast.

“By the deep, twelve.”

Now it was starting to shallow; there seemed little point in delaying.

“Anchor, if you please, Mr Caulfield.”

The first lieutenant gave the order: sheets were released, the stopper let go, and
Scylla
‘s bower dropped into the placid waters of the sound.

“We shall remain at a single anchor,” the captain announced. Mooring the ship at two might be more secure, but it was a relatively safe spot, and Banks still suspected that they might need to move off in a hurry. Fraiser was starting to take bearings while Caulfield backed the mizzen to increase the pull on the cable. Banks walked forward to the break of the quarterdeck and looked down at the assembled marines in the waist.

“Captain, you may begin to disembark your men.”

Westwood gave a smart salute, while Adshead bellowed orders in a sharp and unpleasant nasal voice which Sergeant Rice quietly translated into commands the men could understand. The marines would provide the military might to secure a suitable landing point, then it would be a question of going ashore and seeing what was about. Banks singled out a midshipman.

“Pass the word for Mr Monroe; tell him we will be leaving presently.”

The lad was off, and soon came back with Monroe, who was looking as cantankerous as ever. The magistrate carried with him the faint scent of brandy, and Banks guessed that he was not relishing the prospect of returning to his home soil. Both women were staying in the ship at the captain’s orders. Sarah had done so without the least objection, and was now playing cards with young Parfrey in the gunroom. Mrs Monroe was not to be seen, and Banks found he cared little what had become of her.

The marines were now in both the pinnace and the launch, and it was quite a sizeable force. Banks watched as they set off for the nearest suitable landing stage and made the boats fast. He regarded the elderly man.

“If you are ready, Mr Monroe, we shall make our way.”

The man grunted something unintelligible, but Barrow, who was in charge of the cutter, soon had him seated. Banks followed, and in no time they were heading for the shore.

A group of civilians had wandered down from the nearby village and were watching with interest. Westwood had his troops lined up along the small quay, and one man in particular was clearly waiting to meet with them as soon as they landed. Banks clambered from the boat, and strode on, ignoring the complaints from Monroe, who it appeared had managed to get his feet wet.

“Are there any members of the militia hereabouts?” Banks asked Westwood as he drew closer.
 

“Not that I can tell, sir.” The marine’s manner was crisp and businesslike. “If there are they have singularly failed to make themselves known, but that is not unusual with hobby soldiers.”

“Very well.”

The civilian cleared his throat. “If you’ll excuse me, captain?” Banks turned to him; he was a small man with thinning red hair that was turning grey, and a hooked nose.
 

“There is no military in the immediate vicinity,” he said in an accent that held a good measure of English, “that is British, Irish, or French for that matter; but a militia garrison is stationed nearby and in good communication; they might be raised at a few hours’ notice.”

“And you are, sir?”

“He’s Foster, the postmaster,” Monroe answered, as he stumbled up to them. His voice was thick and he was clearly having difficultly speaking and keeping upright simultaneously. “Calls himself an Englishman, yet sides with the Irish every time.”

Foster regarded Monroe with interest. “I hadn’t expected to see you hereabouts, Mr Monroe,” he said softly. “Thought you had deserted us for good.”

“I’ve come to see what is left of my property, if it is any of your business,”– the words were slurred and over loud – “though I expect it will be a wasted journey, once you and your paddy friends have finished with it.”

“I have not been near Dungloe these last few weeks, Mr Monroe.” Foster spoke with obvious control and Banks found himself warming to the man. “Indeed, there was far too much excitement hereabouts to venture further.”

“We have heard of a French landing,” Banks said. “Perhaps you could enlighten us?”
 

Foster regarded him seriously. “There is little to tell, sir.”

“What of the ship?” Monroe demanded “The one with Napper Tandy aboard?”

“It sailed the following morning,” Foster replied coldly. “As you would have discovered if your departure had been a little less hurried.”

“Have you any idea where they were headed?” Banks asked.

“Not specifically, but they set off northwards.”

“And did you make contact with them at all?”

“Aye, what plans did the two of you cook up?” Monroe added.

“I spoke with Napper Tandy himself, as well as his ship’s captain, a fellow called Blanckman, and a General Rae.” Foster switched his attention from the magistrate and focused entirely on Banks. “They had made a fast passage – from Dunkirk, or so I believe – but still were sadly ill informed, and knew nothing of the French defeat at Killala. It seemed that Tandy was convinced, but the other two not so. Fortunately I was able to produce British newspapers that had arrived only that day. With those as evidence I could persuade them their mission was futile.”

“Very good,” Banks told him. “And did they give any indication of their future plans?”Foster smiled. “That is exactly what the last Navy captain wanted to know.”

“We are not the first?”

“
Cygnet
called here a few days after Tandy left; with luck they will be close on his tail.”

Banks drew a sigh of relief.
Cygnet
was
a hired cutter based at Belfast and would be in communication with that squadron. If she had already collected the information it freed him to continue to look for both the French and Warren’s ships.

“Did Tandy attempt to raise the local population?”

The postmaster gave a short chuckle. “He tried for a spell, and those that were with him were certainly keen to continue. But we are tired of the French politics about here, and they made little progress.”