1798

by Joe Murphy

  Tom moved close to the couple so that he was standing almost in the compass of their encircling arms. In such close proximity to them that he could smell the sour scents of sweat and grime over the last lingering sweetness of Elizabeth’s perfume, Tom whispered savagely, ‘Your cause is not my cause, brother. I am here because of you and because I chose my family above loyalty to the Crown. The dream of old Ireland free can remain just that as long as you and I keep our lives, since our land and property is now defiled. I accept that we are rebels, Dan, but I would like to die an old rebel in my bed at the age of eighty, surrounded by grandchildren, than be shot in a ditch surrounded by fantasies and pipe-dreams.

  ‘I am not the only man here whose vision of what we do differs from yours, Dan,’ he continued. ‘You saw what happened in Ferns. You saw the burned homes of ordinary Protestants. Not landlords, not yeomen but ordinary Protestant labourers. Homeless and wretched because of mindless hate. You are a noble man, Dan and as God is my witness I wish I were as righteous as you, but I am not and neither are a good many of those gathered about.’

  As Dan blinked at him in wordless angst, Tom addressed Elizabeth, ‘Have you revealed to anyone that you are a Protestant, Ms Blakely?’

  Taken aback, her hand rising protectively to her throat, Elizabeth shook her head, her red-brown curls bouncing about her shoulders, ‘No I have not. I deemed it a rather indelicate subject to broach.’

  Tom nodded grimly, ‘Then, madam, you have more sense than this big eejit here beside us. Your lack of judgement in matters of the heart is not mirrored by a similar blindness when it comes to matters of the head.’

  Dan regarded his brother with an air of grave acceptance. Unconsciously, he clasped Elizabeth more tightly to himself and said in a low voice, barely audible even to Tom, ‘I could not countenance anyone bringing harm to Elizabeth. I should spill the blood of every man in this army before I should allow that to happen.’

  Tom smiled at his brother, his hand coming up to rest fondly on Dan’s shoulder.

  ‘The awful thing about that prospect is that I would be forced to stand with you. And so instead of this foolishness ending your life alone it would have the effect of dragging me down to hell with you. So, I propose that Ms Blakely refrains from mentioning the very word “religion” until we are safe.’

  Elizabeth looked at him with wide, sad eyes and nodded emphatically, ‘I shall remain merely a good Christian until this bloody mess is decided once and for all.’

  Tom was about to add something more when the brazen wail of a bugle winged its way into the summer sky. Harsh and screaming it brayed forth and died away before lifting again in banshee reprise. Close on the heels of the last fading brassy notes a group of men marched into the camp, a sentry scurrying ahead of them, every now and then tossing his beaver hat aloft and catching it in celebration.

  The group of men were all well-armed and marched in good order, their step rhythmical as clockwork and their pikes slanted steeply against their shoulders. At their head rode a young man of mature bearing, his gentleman’s frock coat open in the heat and two walnut-handled pistols holstered at his belt, a long sword swung low at his left thigh and every line of his youthful carriage communicated an air of unshakable self-assurance. A green sash, reminiscent of the red one worn by infantry officers, was knotted at his hip.

  ‘Mr Byrne!’ called Dan as soon as this splendid figure rode within earshot.

  Miles Byrne looked up, blinked in recognition and then swung down from his mount. He strode up to Dan’s little group with a wide grin lending his features a boyish aspect despite his military bearing and the weapons festooning his body.

  ‘Daniel Banville,’ he greeted, ‘I am delighted to see you here. With Perry’s arrest and the organisation in the north of the county thrown into such turmoil, I was afraid that you had fled to Dublin.’

  ‘No such luck,’ answered Dan, smiling. ‘Besides, it would have been a tragedy to miss such a ball as this.’

  Still grinning, Byrne turned with his precocious confidence and introduced himself first to Elizabeth and then to Tom.

  ‘Elizabeth Blakely. How do you do?’ said Elizabeth demurely.

  At the mention of her last name, Byrne’s brow wrinkled slightly, as though it should mean something to him.

  However, as Tom introduced himself, Byrne’s visage curdled into an open scowl and he shook the younger Banville’s hand only once, as if it were the breeding ground for some vile, contagious disease. Standing in pregnant silence, the two young men faced each other before Byrne said softly, ‘Tom Banville of the Castletown yeos, I presume.’

  ‘Formerly of the Castletown Corps of Yeoman Cavalry, yes, I am he,’ Tom replied.

  ‘What brings you onto the side of the people?’ the young rebel captain asked.

  ‘I am on the side of my brother, Mr Byrne. It is because of him that I find myself numbered among the ranks of the United Irishmen. Because of him I pulled trigger against the North Corks on Oulart Hill.’

  Byrne nodded warily before saying slowly, ‘I regret not being on Oulart Hill to see those Cork butchers dispersed with such gallantry. I also regret that you had not joined with us before that date, for men of you and your brother’s esteem might have swung the tide on Kilthomas Hill and saved a host of poor wretches from the flashing steel of the Carnew Cavalry.’

  Tom eyed Byrne thoughtfully, contemplating whether the olive branch that the Monaseed youth had offered him was worth accepting. At length he smiled grimly. ‘More like I would have been arrested, and myself and Dan here would be swinging from that Cork blackguard Tom the Devil’s walking gallows before the dust of our struggles had settled,’ he said.

  ‘The good Sergeant Tom is still spreading terror around Gorey, last I heard,’ said Byrne. ‘I believe he is orchestrating the torture of United prisoners.’ His voice dropped then and a guttural fury bubbled up from his chest, ‘A good many of my fondest fellows have run afoul of the North Cork’s inducements. I have not seen them since.’

  Dan then asked, ‘Were you at Kilthomas yourself, Mr Byrne?’

  Byrne shook his head, ‘Please, call me Miles, Mr Banville. To answer your question, no, I was not. I was gathering men to me around Monaseed at the time that the redcoats marched out from Carnew. Fr Michael Murphy was in charge on the hill, I believe. He is one of the finest and most active gentlemen in the country but is inclined to bluster and, for all his energy, I doubt he has ever given any real thought to leading armed men in the field.’

  Dan was nodding in agreement, ‘At Oulart, we had Edward Roche and Morgan Byrne, both military men, as well as that priest from Boolavogue, Fr John Murphy. He has shown himself to be a most capable leader and the people hold him high in their affections.’

  ‘I had heard that,’ said Byrne. ‘Perry’s “fat prevaricator” has come down on the right side after all. Good for him.’

  He then turned and gestured to where his men were mingling with the other corps of rebels on the broad sward of the hill top and said, ‘I will talk to you later, Mr Banville. I must go and see to my men.’ With that he turned on his heel and led his horse off through the throng, accepting acclaim and scattered cheers as he walked.

  ‘Dashing, isn’t he?’ commented Elizabeth.

  Dan threw her a look as Tom erupted in laughter.

  The rebel army struck camp at around two o’clock in the afternoon and marched, corps by corps, down onto the road slashing through the countryside from Enniscorthy to Bunclody. They marched silently now, each man cocooned within the muffling threads of his own contemplations, each one considering the terrible prospect of the battle to come. The ranks had been further strengthened by a contingent of United men who had come down from Kiltealy, led by another priest, the boisterous – and suspended – Fr Mogue Kearns. The Kiltealy men were all born and reared under the stone-stubbled slopes of Mount Leinster and all were hardy and fiercely determined, their leather faces dour in the sunlight. The rebel column now numbered perhaps f
ive thousand fighting men and, coupled with the cattle train and the long huddled multitude of camp followers, it stretched a mile long from steel-edged tip to shawled and anxious tail.

  At its head rode Roche, Sparks, Frs John and Michael and Mogue Kearns. Ranging out in front with his Monaseed men, Miles Byrne could be seen flitting from field to field, crossing and re-crossing the hard earth of the road, providing a vedette for the main mass of pikemen.

  In front too, carried high against the blue sky, the two banners, one green and one black, fluttered in a rising breeze.

  As Dan marched he knew that behind him, somewhere amidst the horde of women and children, his beautiful Elizabeth would be walking too, her sun-bonnet awry and her eyes fixed, resolute, on the road ahead.

  CHAPTER 10

  Enniscorthy’s in Flames

  Captain William Snowe of the North Cork Militia stood in the dust and noise of Enniscorthy’s market square and watched his men throw barricades across the five narrow streets that connected it to the main sprawl of the town. Red coats and bicorns discarded, the soldiers laboured with the frantic tenacity of men who knew that their lives depended on their labours. Sergeants and officers bellowed and cursed, ham fists shaking as men, slick-skinned with perspiration, let slip barrels or the traces of carts, delaying the fortification by vital moments.

  Enniscorthy Town straddled the River Slaney in a picturesque series of terraces. Thatched cabins and slated roofs climbed the slopes of the river valley, crawling up and away from the river and the six arches of its stone bridge, each roof over-topping the next, stepped ever higher up the defile. The main bulk of the town sat snugly in the steep gorge that the Slaney ploughed for itself beneath the frowning edifice of Vinegar Hill, which sat like a slumbering titan just to the east of the town’s most outlying suburb.

  Houses of this suburb, like the ones extending north beyond Irish Street, were doleful little tumbledown affairs, often windowless and their thatch mildewed and sagging. In the middle of the town, just off the market square, the iron-grey towers of Enniscorthy Castle bludgeoned the heavens with the gap-toothed thrust of its towers. To the northwest, the town mounted the ever-steepening gradient until the ground, with surprising suddenness, levelled off. It was here that the remains of an ancient barbican, the Duffry Gate, slumped in shattered disorder, a morbid reminder of bygone days.

  It was through the Duffry Gate that the sentry, now sitting his winded mount before Captain Snowe, had galloped moments before.

  Snowe returned his gaze to the mounted yeoman before him.

  ‘Could you please repeat that, Private?’ he asked.

  The yeoman, breathless himself, huffed, ‘Sir, there’s a large force of rebels bearing down on the Duffry Gate from the north. They have all the appearance of attacking the town, sir.’

  ‘Where are Captains Pounden and Cornock?’ asked Snowe.

  ‘Captain Pounden has drawn up the Enniscorthy Infantry in front of the Duffry Gate, sir, with the Scarawalsh Infantry in reserve. They mean to make a fight of it, sir.’

  Snowe nodded in satisfaction, ‘That is good to hear. With Richards’s hundred horse we should have two hundred regular troops at the gate to chastise these croppies and expose them as the rabble they are.’

  The North Cork captain cast his vision around the square. Here, brick market houses gazed down onto the hard-packed clay, their windows reflecting the sunlight and stabbing brilliant slivers of gold to sear the eyeballs.

  ‘Lieutenant Cusack!’ called Snowe, and a red-coated North Cork officer turned from where he was directing soldiers to man the barricades.

  The lieutenant saluted. ‘Sir?’

  Snowe pointed to the windows overlooking the square. ‘Have as many sharpshooters as you can find placed at the windows of the market houses. If you cannot spare the men then press as many loyal civilians as you can quickly find. Battle is upon us, so be quick about it.’

  The officer saluted and dashed off, rounding up men as he went.

  Snowe once more addressed the sentry, ‘Have the officers at the Duffry Gate know that they must drive back these rebels with as sanguinary an effort as possible. The niceties of war are not to be applied to traitors and renegades. Have them know that myself and seventy of my North Corks will hold the bridge as a reserve or in case of retreat to Wexford. Have them know that this last contingency is one too awful to contemplate and that retreat in the face of farmers and mischief-makers is something that shall not be tolerated.’

  The sentry saluted, sawed his horse about in a whickering wheel of horse flesh and was gone, pounding up the main street toward the Duffry Gate. Captain Snowe watched him go before making his way downhill to the bridge, barking orders as he went.

  Captain John Pounden listened as the sentry related Captain Snowe’s orders, then grunted and turned to his brother, Joshua, a lieutenant in his elder sibling’s corps.

  ‘What do you make of this?’ he asked.

  Joshua Pounden’s eyes were shaded by the sharp beak of his cocked hat but even in the gloom John could see the anxiety scuttling within them. ‘I would surmise,’ he said at last, ‘that Captain Snowe has enough faith in the yeoman infantry and cavalry that he does not see the necessity to reinforce us here. We have upwards of two hundred men and horse, John. We should disperse this rebel band like seeds in the wind.’

  Captain Pounden watched as his vedettes came running down the road, the mounted cavalry pickets thundering ahead and merging with the rest of the horses, waiting just behind the infantry. His own foot troops came after in small bands, a sergeant saluting as he passed and saying, ‘They are very numerous, sir.’

  In the distance to the north, a brown haze began to rise into the afternoon air, shimmering as though a mirage or a vision from some terrible dream. The two Poundens and their assembled troops watched it grow darker and more menacing as it approached. A cold feeling of dread began to weigh heavily on the infantry men. For many of them, house burnings and the apprehension of suspected United Irishmen had been the limit of their experience of battle. The tale of what had occurred the previous day at Oulart Hill had trickled into town over the course of the night like the vile seepage of an infected wound. With each ear the story had grown so that the rebels had become monsters in the minds of the soldiers. Staunch loyalists all, they watched the dust cloud approach with a sense of coming apocalypse.

  Perceiving his men’s distress, Captain Pounden walked down the ranks, saying, ‘Steady boys, steady. God is with us and with his guidance we shall exterminate the rabble to the very last man. Be steady is all. Steady.’

  Lieutenant Joshua Pounden, his brow a swamp of moisture, raised one gloved hand to his face and dragged his fingers down his cheeks and along his jaw. He stood, deaf to his brother’s words, merely watching as the dust cloud drew ever closer and felt his stomach heave and the cold hand of fear claw at his rib cage. In the distance, but growing louder, he thought he could hear the subterranean thunder of marching feet – thousands of them.

  In sight of the Duffry Gate, Fr John and Edward Roche called a halt to the rebel column’s march. In front of them, arrayed before the decrepit remains of the gate itself, the ranks of the Enniscorthy Yeoman Infantry stood in a bristling line of steel and scarlet. Behind them, over the bicorns of the infantry, the gentlemen of the yeoman cavalry could be seen sitting their foxhunters, serene as judges at a fair. The heavy ditches on either side of the road seemed to trammel all vision so that every insurgent gaze was directed in ever-narrowing perspective toward the redcoat line.

  The rebel leaders conferred for a moment before Fr John ordered that the first corps of gunsmen, amongst them those who had been on Oulart Hill the day before and who were coming to think of themselves as veterans, to form up on the road ahead. With a great rattling of pikestaffs, and with prayers droning up from the ranks in a soft, bass murmur, the detachment of two hundred musketeers moved forward between their comrades, weapons held ready in both hands and eyes glinting in febrile antic
ipation. Amidst them, Tom and Dan, with pilfered North Cork muskets in their hands, breathed heavily and looked straight ahead to where the red line of the soldiers laid waiting.

  To either side of this frightening block of weaponry, Edward Roche had instructed two corps of pikemen to assemble and guard the flanks against cavalry charges. These men held themselves low to the ground, those bloodied from the action at Kilthomas eager for revenge.

  Then, as Pounden and his officers looked on, the rebel army began apparently to fall asunder. One group of close to a thousand split off from the main bulk and disappeared through the steeply sloping fields, making, it seemed, for the river or the hovels of Irish Street. A second contingent, more numerous than the first, swept away to Pounden’s left. The main body of rebels, cattle train in tow, however, remained firmly on the road facing the Duffry Gate, its bulk a roiling mass of gunmetal and the lacerating heads of pike and hayfork, sword and slash hook.

  ‘They’re trying to outflank us,’ Captain Pounden said, bewilderment lacing his voice.

  ‘Nonsense,’ dismissed Joshua Pounden. ‘You give them too much credit. They are either off to find something to loot or are quitting the field.’

  Dan and Tom looked on as the soldiers ignored the movements of the two smaller rebel divisions. ‘That’s a piece of luck,’ muttered Tom.

  Dan turned to watch Thomas Sinnott, a sixty year old cousin of William’s, lead his detachment through the blossoming fields and ditches leading down to the Slaney, and said, ‘They’ll need more than that.’

  To their front, the Banville brothers suddenly became aware of movement in the red-coated ranks. A grumbled agitation filtered through the rebel lines like a breeze through drifting leaves. The yeoman infantry had moved forward into the open, wheel-scarred expanse of ground that lay in a rumpled triangle before the Duffry Gate. Generations of traffic, merchants from Dublin, farmers from Kiltealy and Marshalstown, all had converged at this point over the years so that, before the town, the hedgerows crumbled to dust and three roads funnelled into one. It was upon this tract of trampled earth that the yeomen had formed, perhaps a hundred yards in front of the old gate.