Harry Heron: Midshipman's Journey

by Patrick G Cox

  Harry remarked on this to Ferghal. “I wonder that Bucephalus permits the smith to handle him at all. Your father he knows well, yet sometimes gives him trouble, but with the smith, he is quite docile.”

  “Aye, Master Harry, but yon horse knows well that the smith can and will throw him to the ground in a trice if he pulls any trickery.” Ferghal laughed as they raked the straw together.

  For both boys, life on the farm and that they had known in the small city some twelve miles to the south could not have been more different. Downpatrick was a thriving garrison town, always busy and with soldiery wherever one looked. There, the smell of horses, people and cesspits permeated everything, in contrast to the farm where, once clear of the enclosed yard, the smell of the sea blowing in from the Lough to the east, or over the ridge from Belfast Lough to the north, kept the air salty-fresh and clean.

  Chapter 2

  Rebellion Brewing

  All through the summer of 1797 there had been talk of rebellion, and in the winter the tension increased. Wolfe Tone, exiled to the Colonies, had, it was rumoured, found his way to France and was raising support. At home, the United Irishmen were stirring, and clandestine militias were assembling in preparation for an invasion. The Major had little patience with this, and, to his wife’s and children’s disappointment, cut off their visits to the Belfast home of Henry Joy McCracken, organiser of the harp soirees often attended by Edward Bunting.

  “The McCrackens go too far,” he stormed, pacing in front of the fireplace in his drawing room. “I share their desire for social reform and improving the lot of the poor, but it cannot be achieved by alliances with the French or by taking up arms. That road leads only to misery and hardship for all. Dear God, have these fools learned nothing from our own blood stained history?”

  “General Lake’s troops are reported to be particularly brutal in dealing with those they suspect of rebellion,” Susan interjected.

  “Lake is sowing dangerous seeds, and allows his troops to commit murder against suspected rebels. Such actions will rebound and cause an uprising. As for the manner of the suppression of the Northern Star—well, what must they do but conduct themselves in a manner unacceptable in the Colonies.” He thrust his hands behind his back, his fists clenched as he continued. “As for those who applaud such doings, I despair. They think of nothing but their own profit.”

  “Do not upset yourself so, James. Where you have taken steps to provide for those we employ, others have not. Indeed, many are now unable to feed their families on their wages, and their employers make no attempt to improve that.”

  Flinging himself into his wing-backed armchair, the Major snorted. “I know it. They wring every penny from the land here to squander on social activities in London, or to play the Exchange. Cousin Henry writes of it often.” He snorted with annoyance. “While I do not share his puritanical views on many things, I do share his distaste for those who think only of their own pleasure, wealth and comfort.”

  Handing him a cup of tea, his wife smiled. Cousin Henry was a successful and wealthy barrister with chambers at the Temple Inn in London. It was his care of the family’s comfortable fortune that provided the money for many of the Major’s small generosities such as schooling for the children of the families in his employ, and repairs and improvements to the houses occupied by his tenants in Newtownards and Bangor. It was the Major’s hope that Harry would, in due time, qualify to become a solicitor and then follow Cousin Henry into the law. Susan did not think it would suit her youngest son, but held her peace on that. Instead, she sought to soothe her husband’s fiery temper. “We miss the musical evenings, my dear, but I can understand your reluctance to support the political tone they adopt. What new start has upset you?”

  Replacing his cup on the saucer, he glowered at the fire. “There is word that the United Irishmen have held a council in Antrim. It seems they voted to delay any action until they are certain the French have landed a force to support them. Mark my words: this will end badly—very badly for everyone!”

  Since inheriting the farm and the small estate that went with it, the Major had worked to improve the lot of those dependent on it and his management of it. A firm believer that all should be educated, as far as possible, he had engaged the services of a young clergyman from Newtownards to provide education for the children of the farm. He had determined to see that all his tenants’ children should at least be able to read and write. For his own sons and daughter he engaged the services of a young woman of genteel birth, and so Harry learned his letters in one room sharing lessons with his elder sister.

  James Heron’s eldest son, also named James, being over twelve, went to the public school in Jordanstown, and the other children of the estate learned in a room set aside for the purpose nearby. When lessons became too dull, and he could escape without notice, Harry would slip out and try to assist in the stables where his old friend, the ex-sergeant, always took care to see to it that he was kept away from any dangerous encounters, usually by allowing Ferghal to show Harry the routine.

  The bond between Harry and Ferghal was strong, as they had played together throughout their childhood. It arose from a four-year-old Ferghal having been given the minding of a two-year-old Harry while their fathers were abroad on campaigns, and they had formed a friendship that took no regard of their different social status. Their friendship grew even stronger as they tried to fit in among the local children who regarded them as outsiders. Harry soon discovered that his status as “the squire’s sprat” created a barrier between him and the others that he could not understand or breach.

  Thus, it was only natural that Harry and Ferghal should form a partnership where each stood up for the other in adversity. If Ferghal suffered at the hands of the local bully, Harry would leap into the fray. Likewise, if Harry were maligned, usually in his absence, Ferghal would leap to his defence. Harry seldom heard of these encounters, though he often saw the bruises on Ferghal’s face and hands that resulted from his loyal friend settling the score on his behalf.

  SEAN O’CONNOR LOOKED UP AS A SHADOW FELL ACROSS the threshold of the cottage door. He was sat at table for his midday meal. Former Sergeant Ostler in the Irish Fusiliers and groom to Major James Heron, he was now head groom of the Major’s stable at Scrabo, living in the small four roomed cottage next to the stables in the south-west angle of the enclosed farmyard, and very content. A Catholic, his wife and children all found places in the work here, with his wife acting as housekeeper to the Herons, and his eldest daughter working as housemaid. His eldest boy had followed him into the Fusiliers and done well for himself; his second son Ferghal looked to be a possible farrier, and the younger children were all fed, clothed and receiving education. Sure, the cottage was cramped, but it was warm, dry and secure. He stared at his visitor, his food halfway to his mouth.

  “Declan,” he exclaimed. “And what is it brings you to seek my company?” His voice was noticeably cold.

  “A chance to redeem yourself, brother,” sneered the newcomer. “I bring you an invitation to join those who would free our land from the English oppression.”

  “Well then you have wasted your journey,” replied Sean quietly. “For you know well my thoughts on that head.”

  “The more sorrow to you then. Be very sure those who sent me to you will show no mercy to those who do not support us,” spat Declan. “We know who our friends are and how to deal with those who are not.”

  “You are all of you mad, or stupid beyond belief,” retorted his brother. “Do you, for one moment, think that those who stir you up like this will share the power with you when they have it? Do you think they will give you the land or the titles? You and your friends are but the tools to help others to power, and you should think deep on that before you run to any standard of that colour.”

  “At the least they’ll be Irish tyrants and not English,” Declan snarled. “We’ll see who is mad. I give you warning now. Soon we will march, and all Ireland
will march with us. When we do, those who stand against us will be driven out with the English or perish on our swords. The French are with us this time properly.”

  “Oh, aye, as they were last December in Bantry Bay. The saints preserve us all—have you none of you any sense? You invite the French to overthrow the English, and what then? Do you think they will just leave?” He shook his head. “Not they!”

  “Take care, brother,” Declan said in a low, quiet voice, his face red with anger. “Well, I have warned you. On your own head be it. We will triumph this time, and when we do, it will be the worse for traitors like you.”

  With that, he was gone, striding up the yard and out through the gate to the road. For a long time Sean O’Connor sat still, oblivious to his food cooling before him. As the anger drained from him, he said, “We’ve not seen the last of him, not yet. And when we do see him again, it will be because the devil is in it and trouble will be close to him.” He looked across at Ferghal. “Take care you stay clear of your uncle Declan if he comes snooping about here. You make sure I know of his whereabouts as soon as you see him.”

  He finished his meal in silence, and his family knew better than to break it, quietly slipping away to their tasks as soon as they could. With a sigh, Sean drained his mug, pushed back his chair, kissed his wife and went in search of the Major.

  March 1798 brought matters to a head. The standard of rebellion was raised first in Leinster, and quickly spread north. The Major, privy to intelligence from his own sources, and realising that the farm stood at the crossroads and in the centre of the northern rebels, took action to protect both the farm and his people.

  “My dear, you and the children will be far safer with our cousins at Comber. I am sending our livestock there as well.” He paced angrily. “The fools on both sides have unleashed the devil, and now we must all choose which devil to follow, the English or the French. General McCracken and General Munro intend a junction here. They plan to drive out the garrisons at Stormont, Newtownards and Bangor then march south to Downpatrick.” He laid particular emphasis on the word General, disgusted at the effrontery of those men in giving themselves titles. “I wish them luck.” He snorted. “There’s not a soldier amongst them.”

  “But what will you do, my dear? What if they demand you join them?”

  “I shall refuse. I know them both, and I will give them my word that I will not take sides in this, provided they do not commandeer our property.” A smile briefly replaced his frown. “I believe I can protect our home and our people by sacrificing some of the stores we have remaining—enough to keep them happy, but not sufficient to bankrupt us.”

  “Is that not risky, my dear? We could be accused of aiding them if you do.”

  “Indeed, but I have advised my former Colonel and sent a note to General Lake and the Lord Castereagh stating my desire to remain neutral in order to protect my family and our dependents, and I will stand by it.” With a snort of disdain, he added, “I understand the Barclays have already decamped to London and Dublin, leaving only their least capable son to manage their holdings at Saul. If anyone is likely to provoke the rebels, it is he.” He shrugged. “Should anyone wish to take issue with my actions, I am sure Cousin Henry in London would not be averse to taking out a suit against them.”

  These plans had not long been implemented, and Harry, his sister, and all the other children were settled in their relatives’ larger home when word arrived that an army under General Munro had arrived and set up camp on the Dundonald side of Scrabo. Chafing at his enforced removal from home, and seeing this opportunity as the chance to prove his courage, Harry was unruly and disobedient. It fell to his host to send a note to the Major, and to receive a stiff admonishment to be delivered to Harry in response.

  “But, Cousin….” he protested, standing his ground despite the threat of a birching as soon as his father could attend to it. “I should be with my Papa, not hiding here with the women.”

  The cousin, a kindly bachelor, smiled, recognising the obstinate streak in the boy. “And what should you do at Scrabo, my fine fellow? Charge into the enemy and rout them single handed? I should think that is unlikely to succeed.” Shrewdly reading Harry correctly, he played his trump card. “No, your father has entrusted you with a great duty—to assist us here and to keep your mother, sister and the livestock safe during this unfortunate time. Here you have a purpose and a place; at home your safety would simply add to your father’s concerns. Now, sir, what do you say to assisting me in the task of finding additional fodder for your father’s cattle?”

  Grudgingly, Harry conceded the truth of the older man’s argument. “I will help with the livestock, Cousin.” He hesitated. “And I am sorry I have caused you and my mama so much trouble. It is very wrong of me.”

  “Then we will deal very well, young Henry,” he said, using Harry’s given name. Offering his hand, he added, “Now, let us away to deal with the matters before us. This upheaval will, I trust, be soon resolved.”

  In the event, his hopes were fulfilled in one area at least, but the revolt would keep them all in a state of uproar until September. Munro’s army arrived a week after the family moved to Comber, and immediately began demanding provisions and support from all and sundry. Major Heron refused the demands of the young popinjay who threatened to break down the gate and doors to force entry into the courtyard.

  The arrogant young man was somewhat discommoded by the Major emerging through the wicket door to demand, with all the practice of his military career behind him, “Who the blazes do you think you are, young man? And who is this rabble you bring with you to break and enter my property?”

  “I am Cornet Fitzgerald, and these are my troop, sir. My commander demands that you turn over all the provisions in your stores to the Forces of the United Irishmen.”

  “Cornet? By whose commission? Call this a troop? My stable hands are more of a troop of soldiers than these.” Watching the rebels out of the corner of his eye, the Major played his hand carefully. “Since when has an Irishman descended on a household like a thief? Those who ask for relief have never been turned from this house, but you did not ask; you came brandishing weapons, axes, and demands, sir. That is the behaviour I expect in a thief, not an Irishman.”

  The comments went home. The young man became flushed with anger and embarrassment, but his men were already shuffling their feet and looking shamefaced. “My commander gave orders to gather food, sir, and I intend to gather it.”

  The Major met the young man’s flustered gaze. “Cornet Fitzgerald, I know your leaders well, and they know me. Present my compliments to your commander. I will receive him here, like gentlemen, and we will discuss his requirements.” Several of the men with the Cornet murmured amongst themselves, clearly disgruntled, and the Major turned his eyes on them. “Should any of you fellows wish to try your luck, I’m sure my groom and his assistants would be willing enough to accommodate your desire for a fight, but I would advise strongly against it. We have heard of the burnings of houses and the murder of civilians on both sides, and you can be sure that we will defend ourselves.”

  “Brave words, Major, but ye’ve not got a regiment behin’ you now.”

  The speaker was a man the Major knew by sight. He searched for a name. “Changed sides have you, Private Boyle? Better pickings than on campaign?” He waited, watching the man. “I trust your companions have suffered no loss from among their kit on the march here.” Seeing the looks the others gave the man, he swung his attention back to the fuming Cornet. “My offer to your commander stands, sir. I shall expect his call.”

  Stepping back through the wicket door, he waited while Sean O’Connor shut and barred it.

  “Think he’ll come, sir?”

  “He’ll come. Let me know when he does.”

  Chapter 3

  Visit to a Frigate

  Knowing that some would choose to interpret his actions as collaborating with the rebels, Major James Heron recei
ved the rebel commander, who styled himself Major Nielson of County Sligo. Receiving him in his estate office, the Major bade his visitor take a seat.

  “Some wine, Major Nielson? I regret that, for reasons I am sure you understand, I cannot offer a meal or other refreshment.”

  The visitor nodded, accepting the offered wine. “General Munro sends his compliments, Major, and wishes you to know that your house is now under his protection. Orders have been given that this house and its occupants are to be left undisturbed.”

  “Thank you.” Studying his guest, James Heron continued. “For my part, my people will do nothing to interfere with yours. I have advised my former commanding officer and those above him that I wish to have no part in this rebellion, an enterprise I regard as folly. I have seen many battlefields, sir, and there is little reward on any of them for anyone, least of all those who fight and die for the ambitions of others.”

  “I understand, but we must do something to throw off the abuses and outright oppression of our people and their rights, sir. That is why I fight.”

  “That is your choice, sir, and I do not deny that there are those who abuse their power and their positions, but I have also learned by experience that all too often today’s saviour is tomorrow’s oppressor.” Sipping his wine, the Major waited. When his guest made no reply, he continued. “By receiving you, I am committing treason in the eyes of some, but I have a duty to my family and to those in my employ to preserve, if I am able, their livelihoods, their homes and the means to feed their families. I cannot do that if I am marching about the country driving people from their homes, burning their crops and killing their livestock.”

  “General Munro said you were a plain spoken man, sir. I understand your position, just as I hope you understand mine. I must ask you to surrender at least some of the provisions you hold in this house.” Casting his eyes about the well-appointed home, Major Nielson added with a sardonic smile, “Your larder cannot be completely empty.” His tone implied he did not expect to depart empty handed.