The Year of the French (17 page)

They stood on deck, landlubber legs braced, hands gripping oak rail. Humbert had no English and could barely understand Tone’s French. Ambition held them joined, stronger than language: glory enough for both of them there, faintly perceptible beyond hills, beyond snow. I can answer from the mouth of a musket all their sneers, Tone thought. That I am not the son of a bankrupt coach builder, but a bastard spawn of the Wolfes of Kildare. I can answer the Whig politicians who used my services and then flung me a few law cases as recompense. He looked at the massive, heavy-shouldered Frenchman. What of him, the same thing, perhaps? Fortune’s favourites, the two of us, ready for the gambler’s toss. The day before, a day without snow, he had seen peasants standing on the tumble of low hills. Not one of them knew his name; not one of them could speak to him in English. Shivering in his French greatcoat, he had marvelled at the west of Ireland, seen then for the first time. He had spoken in confident terms to the Directory: the western counties, untamed, fierce in their hatred of England. He hoped that this was true; he knew nothing of the west beyond a few days at Ballinasloe, within the borders of Connaught, spent cajoling cautious Papist squireens. It was wild enough, that Bantry coast, and the men upon the hills infinitely remote and alien.

Hoche summoned Tone and Humbert back into the cabin. His decision had been made. The French, and Tone with them, sailed on the morning’s tide. The invasion fleet was to be dispersed. Tone stood on deck, humming tunelessly as he watched the coastline recede. Back in France, he set to work draughting fresh memorials, urging a second attempt. Above him, in the labyrinthine world of French politics, the Directory twisted and coiled. Hoche, his strongest hope, died. His memorials swelled in number and size, and his claims for Ireland grew more hectic. The new general of the hour, Buonaparte, granted him an interview, a lean, sallow man with fierce dark eyes, who heard him out impassively and then dismissed him. Other agents of the United Irishmen joined the small colony of Irish exiles, Lewines and Napper Tandy from Dublin, Bartholemew Teeling from Belfast. Edward Fitzgerald and Arthur O’Connor met with French emissaries in Hamburg. They brought stories of quarrels within the Dublin Directory. Belfast argued for a rising in the autumn of ‘ninety-seven; Dublin insisted upon the following spring. Tom Emmet would not act without French help; O’Connor would act with it or without. Troops were being moved into Wicklow and Wexford, and the United Men in Belfast and Antrim were being harassed. Time was running out.

Tone persisted, pleading daily with members of the Directory. Perhaps, they told him. Perhaps a limited invasion, with French troops and Dutch ships. In the autumn of 1797, the Dutch fleet was destroyed at Camper-down. An army of England was assembled on the coast and Buonaparte was placed in command. Tone managed a second meeting with him, took out his maps and papers and unfolded them. Buonaparte again listened in silence, the dark eyes watching Tone’s thin, quick hand as it flickered across the potato of an island, pointing to coastlines, bays, deep rivers. “You are a very brave man,” he told Tone in a flat, tuneless voice much like Tone’s own voice. A useless meeting: Buonaparte, determined upon an Egyptian expedition, was quietly draining away the regiments from the army of England. But in the face of this knowledge, Tone persisted. He had become something of a joke to the Directory, “Colonel Irishman,” “the wild Irishman,” but not entirely a joke, for he was speaking on behalf of a people who stood upon the edge of insurrection.

Then, early in May, word was brought to Paris that the rising had been set for the twenty-fourth of that month. There were two more messages, and then all communications failed. On the morning of the twenty-fourth, the mailcoaches leaving Dublin were seized by men armed with pistols and pikes. It was the signal. The United Men swarmed out of the northern hills of Antrim and from the small villages of Wexford in the south. Tone rode back to Paris from Rouen where he had been serving with the army, and began arguing again. But still the Directory would not move. He wore himself out with his arguments, went without sleep, drank too much wine too fast and was sick. He used every argument he could think of, and then began to lie. Every Papist and Presbyterian in Ireland was a sworn United Irishman. Every county in Ireland would rise up at the sight of a French sail. The insurrection had begun and must be supported. The Directory made no response. He visited Grouchy, Kilmaine, Humbert, at their coastal commands, and pleaded his case directly with the army. Yes, they agreed, an opportunity of this kind must be seized. At the least, it would divert a part of England’s energies away from Buonaparte’s expedition. Kilmaine, who was of Irish ancestry, was enthusiastic, and so too was Humbert, Tone’s old ally.

Facing him across a small table, Humbert questioned him closely. Was he certain of his facts? How widespread was the United Irish organization? Could it be relied upon? Did it number leaders, men of property in its ranks? Had its preparations been thorough? With a giddy sensation that he was again risking everything upon a gambler’s toss, Tone resolved to tell Humbert something like the truth. The Society of United Irishmen was a patchwork organization, an uneasy alliance of city radicals, some northern Presbyterians, some southern Papists. Tom Emmet was right, and not O’Connor and Fitzgerald: without French assistance, the insurrection was hopeless. But if France landed a sufficient force, all would change. There was everywhere in Ireland a deep, sullen resentment of English rule. It awaited only some reasonable chance of success.

When he had finished, Humbert smiled, the lazy smile of an immense, powerful cat. “Then you have been lying to the Directory. Small wonder that Buonaparte called you a brave man.” Tone shook his head impatiently. His French was far better now. “I have told them that they have it in their power to free Ireland. And they do. Perhaps I exaggerated here and there. Once we have won, no one will bother about that.” “Once we have won,” Humbert repeated, still smiling. “My God,” Tone said, “must I tell a French general that there are times when chances must be taken? It is a gamble, a good gamble.” “And if we lose,” Humbert said, “France will have thrown away an army.” Tone shrugged. “We will not lose.” “And why are you being so frank with me?” Humbert asked. “I know your reputation,” Tone said; “of all the generals, we have most need for you.” “Because of the Vendée?” Humbert asked; “that was a long time ago. Everything is changing.” He pushed back his chair, and sat with his hands thrust in his waistband, pressing upon his heavy stomach. “Kilmaine and I have already written to Paris, to recommend an Irish expedition. What do you say to that?” “It must be a large one,” Tone said at once. “Do it right, or don’t bother with it. It must be as large as the expedition which sailed with Hoche. And it must be sent out at once, while Ulster and Leinster are in arms.” Humbert’s smile broadened. “You are a remarkable man, Colonel Irishman. You should have been born a Frenchman.” “I was born an Irishman,” Tone said. “Whatever that means.” “We may discover what it means,” Humbert said.

Now, little more than a week later, the years of pleading had ended, and he walked dazed and jubilant through the streets of Paris beside the bridges of the Seine. He barely noticed them, but in some corner of his mind they awakened thin, watery memories of the Liffey and its bridges, the Four Courts, the Custom House, the Houses of Parliament.

He entered the crowded café and squeezed past tables to the corner where Lewines and Bartholemew Teeling had been waiting for him. He shook his head at the near-empty bottle of burgundy and signalled the waiter for a fresh one. When he caught his breath, he said easily, with his playactor’s love of effect, “It was settled this evening. A proper expedition. To sail by the end of the month.”

“What do they mean by proper?” Lewines asked.

“A thousand men under my own darling, Humbert, five thousand under Hardy, and nine thousand under Kilmaine to follow.
Ça ira, ça ira
.”

“It is a miracle,” Teeling said.

“Ah, Teeling, my old Belfast Papist, you can’t get your mind off miracles. This was a miracle worked by the undeniable justice of our cause and by my own splendid self. Fierce in battle, sage in the council hall, boyish and unaffected among his intimates, Citizen Wolfe Tone of Dublin at last stormed the Directory. It is a fact, a settled fact, the orders have been written, signed, and despatched. Colonel Tone to accompany Hardy, Colonel Teeling to accompany Humbert, Citizen Lewines to be attached to the staff of General Kilmaine. It did no harm at all that Kilmaine is Irish, no harm at all.”

“Kilmaine to follow,” Teeling said. “What does that mean?”

“It means that Humbert and Hardy must establish themselves and rally support. If they can do that within a week, then Kilmaine will sail. A fair arrangement. And they sail for Ulster, Bartholemew, to place themselves in aid of your friend MacCracken. The United Irish and the French will share the command equally. I insisted upon that as a citizen of the future republic, cherished and esteemed by those few who have heard my name.” A corner of his eye caught his reflexion in a mirror, and he winked.

“Where in Ulster?” Teeling asked. “Where do they intend to land?” Grey eyes set in a long, handsome face studied Tone carefully. His voice had the twang of Ulster.

“Lough Swilly.” Tone shrugged. “Does it matter? I explained to them that we can land at any point in Ireland and the natives will leap up, their faces afire with the love of liberty.”

“God send that MacCracken can still use our help,” Teeling said. “It may all be over now, one way or the other.”

Tone drew out a pocket map, the size of his two spread hands, and worn from much folding and refolding. “The danger is in slipping past the English fleet, somewhere off the Cork coast, so we must make a wide sweep, which will cost us a day or two. Then we cut in by Galway, take the curve here at Mayo, sail past Mayo and Sligo, and then curve north again to Lough Swilly. There was a ship’s captain this evening, full of nautical terms that I didn’t understand, but that is about what he was saying.”

“That was a bold thing to say,” Teeling said. “That the people would rise up in whatever part of the island we chose.”

“Well,” Tone said. “Perhaps not every part. Not Galway or Mayo, where the natives eat raw fish and worship Dennis Browne and Dick Martin.”

Lewines shook his head, a dark, round man. “You may have promised them too much.”

“If I had promised them less, they would not have given us a corporal’s guard in a longboat. I have come to know these frog-eaters. Their idea of sport is a small bet placed after the race has been won.” He took the fresh bottle from the waiter. “Colonel Teeling, will you pay this man, upon instructions from the Treasurer of the Irish Republic. What do you think of that notion, Bartholemew? Shall I become Treasurer? Do you see yourself as First Lord of the Irish Admiralty?”

Teeling took out his purse. “It is a miracle that you have worked,” he said counting out silver. “And we may bring it off. There are men fighting at home now with nothing in their hands but pikes. I would take any chance to bring help to them.”

Tone poured wine in their glasses, and without looking up, said, “But something is worrying at you, is it not? You are too dour. All you northerners are. MacCracken is the same.”

“One thousand and five thousand to sail now, and nine thousand to follow. Fifteen thousand in all. But they are sending a large army to Egypt, and they have part of a continent to guard, frontiers to protect.”

“But you may depend upon it, Bartholemew.” He lifted two of the glasses, and extended them to Lewines and Teeling. “In a few days’ time you will be standing on a deck. It is a rare and bracing experience.”

“Is the Directory of one mind about this?”

“I don’t know,” Tone said, “to tell you the blunt truth. But it doesn’t matter. It was Carnot who spoke to me, and Carnot is very firm upon the point. It has been decided, he said. That is good enough for me.”

“Sure the man is right,” Lewines said in excitement. “If only five thousand men land, it is that many more than we have.”

“And arms for twenty thousand,” Tone said. “Not pikes, either. Muskets and pistols.”

Teeling smiled. It transformed the stern, pale face. “You are right indeed,” he said. “I ask your pardon. And I drink your health. It has been a hard, long fight. No other man could have managed it.”

“I accept the toast,” Tone said, and they drank. “But I would propose a worthier one. To the Irish Republic.” He refilled their glasses.

Teeling looked down at the map, shadowed as their glasses touched above it. It spread outwards from its centre, the towns of Leinster, the sharp indentations of Munster’s coastline. Mayo was almost a blank: a few towns scattered upon an expanse of white.

FROM 
AN IMPARTIAL NARRATIVE
OF WHAT PASSED AT KILLALA
IN THE SUMMER OF 1798,
BY ARTHUR VINCENT BROOME, MA (OXON.)

Nothing is more abhorrent to the liberal and enlightened mind than the savage violence which at times can issue from social and sectarian animosities. And yet it became my sorry lot to witness such violence as July stretched towards August, and while the countryside was gathering to itself the transient beauty of late summer. It is that time of year when the great wheel of the husbandman’s labour hangs motionless before swinging to the bustle and effort of the harvest. The pagan bonfires of the preceding month had invoked the spectral powers which once held sway over this land and which have never entirely vanished. And Mr. Hussey in his chapel and I in our church had with a far greater propriety invoked the blessings of the Creator upon the ripening crops, offering our thanks that He had bestowed upon our hard-pressed people the gift of a great vegetable abundance.