The Year of the French (88 page)

“If,” Cornwallis repeated, and shrugged in sympathy. “It has now arrived. I thought I should drop by and tell you. A ship of the line, eight frigates, a schooner. Warren intercepted them off the Donegal coast.”

Humbert sat quietly. “What ship of the line? Do you know?”

“The
Hoche
. She put up a good fight. Didn’t strike her colours for four hours. That fellow Wolfe Tone was aboard her. He is coming down to Dublin. In chains.”

“So. It began with Hoche and it ends with his name. Hoche and Tone. What a pair!”

“Mr. Tone claims the rights and privileges of an adjutant-general in the French army.”

“So he is. And Bartholemew Teeling is a colonel in the French army. He should be with me here, and not in some prison awaiting trial. I have written strong words to you on that subject.”

“It won’t do, old fellow. Mr. Tone and Mr. Teeling are subjects of the British Crown and they have committed treason. They will hang for it.”

“That is unjust,” Humbert said. “As a soldier you must feel its injustice. Teeling was the bravest of my officers. A chivalrous man. He protected the persons and the property of your loyalists.”

“I am sorry,” Cornwallis said. “I cannot judge this matter as a soldier. Treason is a most damnable offence. Especially when it is unsuccessful.”

It was Humbert’s turn to smile. He studied Cornwallis through halfopened eyes, a large, sleepy cat. “Perhaps,” he said. “I have made my protest. I will miss Colonel Teeling.”

“And Tone?”

“Teeling is a most serious man, a formidable man. I could never understand Tone, with his jokes and snatches of song. Hoche adored him.”

“A damned nuisance,” Cornwallis said. “A traitor and a nuisance. I have been told that General Buonaparte mistrusted him.”

The cat turned its dark head away from Cornwallis and looked towards the window. “So I have heard.”

“Now there is a remarkable man,” Cornwallis said. “Your General Buonaparte. He is in desperate straits now, is he not? Stranded off there in Egypt with his army. He could have made his mark in the world. That Italian campaign, eh? The fortunes of war. They make us or mar us.”

“He is a most remarkable soldier,” Humbert said.

“You must know him well,” Cornwallis said.

“Not well,” Humbert said. “Not well enough to discuss him with a British general.”

“Your point is taken,” Cornwallis said. “But I must confess that I am curious to know about him. Who is not?”

“You will know about him soon enough,” Humbert said. “I think we all will know about him.”

“There is little left to know,” Cornwallis said. “He will rot out there in Egypt. Ah, but that Italian campaign! He made his mark. Great energy you French fellows have! Buonaparte invades Egypt, you invade Ireland. An ambitious people, spreading the gospel of the Revolution to left and to right, as you might say.”

“We intend to defend the Revolution, if that is what you mean to say. We defended it against the monarchs of Europe and we will defend it against the British Empire. We shall not let ourselves be strangled.”

“Is that the way of it?” Cornwallis asked. “Well now. But from the first I have had a different notion. Only a notion, mind you.” He leaned forward. “It has occurred to me that the liberation of Ireland was not your true goal, General Humbert. It has occurred to me that you wished to return to Paris as a victorious general, while Buonaparte was safely away in Egypt.”

Humbert’s eyes flew open. “For what possible purpose?”

“Why, to defend your revolution, of course. Not against the British Empire, but against General Buonaparte.”

Humbert smiled, but the dark, heavy eyes remained wide and watchful. “You British develop peculiar notions indeed about other peoples. France is a nation, General, a great nation. It is not a gang of—of bandits.”

“Of Corsican bandits, you were about to say. I may be entirely mistaken. No doubt I am. In the event, it does not matter, does it? The two of you have been shipwrecked, poor fellows. Yourself and Buonaparte.”

“You have—you must excuse me for saying this—you have too much self-satisfaction, you British. We will manage our affairs, we French, and we will defend ourselves against you. You are welcome to Ireland. It is a most unhealthy country.”

“You have found it so,” Cornwallis said. “But the Irish people are charming, are they not?”

“They are a rabble,” Humbert said, with sudden ferocity. “They are the most backward race in Europe.”

Cornwallis nodded. “Best leave them to us. Damned if I know what we would do without them. It is like having an invalid wife or an idiot daughter.” He lifted his gouty leg to the floor and stood up. “Perhaps we will have another opportunity to talk before you leave.”

“That would be pleasant,” Humbert said, and added, with faint sarcasm, “it is interesting to exchange confidences in this manner.”

At the door, Cornwallis paused. “I have received a letter from the clergyman at Killala. A man named Broome.”

Humbert smiled broadly. “I shall not forget Mr. Broome. A good little man. A bit foolish, perhaps, but good-hearted.”

“Yes, he would appear so. He is concerned about the behaviour of our troops there—my own people, you understand. And he praises the young fellow whom you left in command of the rebels. Name of O’Donnell. Do you remember him?”

Humbert thought and then shook his head. “I should. If I placed him in command I should remember him. There were so many of them. We gave them muskets and they wasted the balls firing at crows.”

“It doesn’t matter. He was killed in the fighting. Broome seems to have taken quite a fancy to him, but Trench calls him a murderous ruffian.”

“Trench is probably right,” Humbert said. “Most of them were ruffians.”

Cornwallis’s coach, with its escort, rattled down Dawson Street and Nassau Street, then into College Green and down Dame Street to the Castle. In Dame Street, handsome and well proportioned, soldiers and merchants paused to stare at it, peered inside for a glimpse of the Viceroy. Near Cork Hill, a group of urchins set up a cheer. Cornwallis leaned forward and raised his hand. A ballad singer leaned against the red brick of the theatre. A coat reached to his ankles; beneath a slouch hat, black hair hung lank.

He held a broadsheet to passersby. The balls of his eyes were turned inwards. A month ago, that fellow would have been singing “The French Are on the Sea.” By God, if they intend to turn Lake into a hero, they have their work cut out for them. Now Humbert! Give that fellow a proper army and God help us all. He will never get one. Perhaps, with luck, some minor command in the provinces or the West Indies. That other fellow, off in Egypt, was a different matter. He wants to contrive his own fate, that fellow does. One of the new men. The world turned upside down.

The coach swung into the lower Castle Yard, clattered across cobbles.

That night, for the first time since Paris, Humbert got drunk. Sitting by himself in the dark room, he finished the bottle of brandy and sent for another. Even Cornwallis, the fat, indolent English aristo, knew what had happened. He “had a notion.” Paris had been lost in the bog of Ballinamuck. All his boasts and promises had sunk there, and now he would be shipped home, courtesy of the enemy, a defeated general. A ridiculous defeat, blundering across Ireland in the company of savage pikemen. Tone had led him on with his glib, lying talk of an island ripe for revolution. Eyes closed, he saw Tone again, dandified in his French uniform, long hook of sabre nose, soft feminine mouth, striding up and down the room, gesticulating as he talked, jokes and passion, shrill cockatoo voice. Playactor. He lit the candle and poured another glass.

More pleasant to think of the night march upon Castlebar, along the dark lake, peasants dragging cannon like beasts of burden, strawlight from distant cabins guided them forward. The tactics of the Vendée, Quiberon, sudden, unexpected. If the second fleet had come in time. He waited a week for them. What had held them at Brest? Intrigue, bungling, bad weather? It did not matter. All the skill in the world was useless without luck. Once he had had them both. Dealer in rabbit skins flung upwards by revolution.
Ci-devant
gentlemen obeyed him, Sarrizen, Fontaine; resentful, supercilious, they obeyed him. Now his luck had run out. “I make my own luck.” Buonaparte’s boast. No longer, perhaps. Night on the hill of Cloone. In the churchyard, by morning light, he saw the English spread out, the net pulled tight. Someday, perhaps, peasants would point out the hill to their grandchildren. The French camped here. All night their fires burned. Among the gravestones. Meaningless.

Dublin Castle, Late September

“Whereas it appears that during the late Invasion many of the inhabitants of the County of Mayo, and counties adjacent, did join the French forces and did receive from them arms and ammunition; and whereas it may be expedient to admit such persons to Mercy who may have been instigated thereto by designing men, We do hereby offer our pardon to any person who has joined the Enemy, provided he surrenders himself to any of His Majesty’s officers in the country, and delivers up a French Firelock and Bayonet, and all ammunition in his possession; and provided that he has not served in any higher capacity than that of Private; and provided that he will fully inform the authorities as to the names and actions of those who served in a capacity higher than that of Private and may thereby be adjudged guilty of high treason.

C
ORNWALLIS
”

Dublin Castle, Late September

“Whereas I have received information upon oath that the persons undernamed have been guilty of high treason, in aiding and assisting the French in their late Invasion of this country, I do offer a reward of one hundred pounds sterling for the apprehension of, or for such information as may cause to be apprehended, any and each of the persons undernamed: Christopher Crump, Esq., M.D., of Oury; Valentine Jordan, Esq., of Forkfield; John Gibbons of Westport; Rev. Myles Prendergast, Friar, of Westport; Rev. Michael Gannon of Louisburgh, Priest; Rev. Manus Sweeney of Newport, Priest; Mr. Peter Gibbons of Westport, Agent to Lord Altamont; Mr. Peter Cleary of Newport, Merchant; James MacDonnell, Esq., of Newport; Thomas Gibbons of Croc, Farmer; Austin O’Malley of Borrisool; Thomas Fergus of Murrisk, Farmer; James MacGreal of Kilguever; Hugh Macguire of Crossmolina, Farmer; Edmond Macguire of Crossmolina, Farmer; Hugh Macguire, jnr. of Crossmolina; Patrick Dunphy of the town of Ballina, Joiner; Michael Canavan of the town of Ballina, Painter; Thomas Rigney of Ballymanagh; Pat MacHale of Crossmolina, Farmer; James Toole, late of County Tyrone; Pat Loughney of Raheskin, Farmer; Martin Harkan of Cloongullane; John Heuston of Castlebar, Chandler; Malachi Duggan of Kilcummin, Farmer.

“All who offer aid or shelter to those here named or to any others who shall hereafter be so named shall be adjudged guilty of the capital crime of abetting high treason.

“The inhabitants of the County of Mayo are again put upon warning that no person who joined the French forces in any capacity shall be admitted to the King’s Mercy until he has first made surrender either to one of His Majesty’s officers or to Mr. Dennis Browne of Browne Hall, High Sheriff of the County. Until such time, he shall be considered a fugitive outlaw, subject to the rigours and penalties of martial law.

C
ornwallis
”

Westport House, Late September

My Dear Trench:

My thanks to you for your letter informing me that Mr. John Moore, Prisoner, has been sent under guard to the gaol in Waterford. I believe, as you know, that his removal from this county well serves both the general interests of the Crown and, more particularly, the restoration of social stability to this county. I have in the meanwhile been most vigorous in my pursuit of Lord Cornwallis’s firm yet humane policy. I have established in the western part of the county a system of informants, by which means I expect shortly to have in hand a complete list or inventory of those who took part in this wretched and accursed rebellion, and I support ardently the view that those who served in a capacity higher than private should be tried for high treason and if found guilty should suffer the appropriate punishment, viz, death by hanging. The chief agents of the conspiracy were most certainly Malcolm Elliott, Randall MacDonnell, and Cornelius O’Dowd. Of these, two were slain in Longford and the first-named awaits State Trial in Dublin. It is therefore the more important that trials and executions of other principals be held in Castlebar that the folly and wickedness of rebellion be impressed upon the populace.

Of those at present held for trial in Castlebar gaol, I would single out three above others. Peter Gibbons of Westport was agent to my own brother and admitted the rebels to Westport House; he was the chief rebel on the western coast of the county. Malachi Duggan, whom I seized and sent forward to you on Tuesday, is a notorious and brutal leader of banditti. He it was who formed and led the “Whiteboys of Killala,” by which title the United Irishmen at first masked their purposes, and in the weeks of the rebellion killed many harmless loyalists and destroyed much property. The third name, that of Owen MacCarthy, I set down in sorrow, for he is a gifted poet in the Gaelic tongue, whose verses have for years afforded to me and to others fond of the ancient tongue much pleasure. And yet he is one of that rascally tribe of hedge schoolmasters who have for centuries kept sedition alive in this island. Of his participation in the rebellion there can be no question, and I am persuaded that his public execution will offer vivid evidence to the populace of our intentions.

I am certain that Lord Cornwallis, for all his magnanimity and liberality of spirit is in agreement with us both, that this county must once and for all be scoured clean of disaffection.

Dennis Browne

Dublin, October 22

F
ROM
L
EONARD
M
AC
N
ALLY
, E
SQ
., B
ARRISTER-AT-
L
AW
, TO E
WARD
C
OOKE
, E
SQ
., U
NDERSECRETARY
OF S
TATE
FOR I
RELAND
, D
UBLIN
C
ASTLE
. U
NSIGNED
. M
ARKED
Most Urgent. Most Confidential
.