1798

by Joe Murphy

  ‘Good man,’ breathed Maxwell whilst, concurrently, the other officers around him smiled and clapped each other on the back.

  To Edward Fitzgerald though, the most dreadful and shameful thing of all was the slow, relieved smile spreading across Bagenal Harvey’s face. It was like something leaking from an abattoir.

  CHAPTER 13

  Events at Three Rocks

  On Vinegar Hill, the council of war that had made a cauldron of bad temper and ill-will under the canopy of Roche’s tent, continued with all the vehemence of a faction fight. The graceless bawling that had threatened to destroy the entire enterprise had died down and Roche and Fr Murphy had placed at least temporary rein on the emotions of their captains. The round table still remained surrounded by the chief commanders whilst about them the captains and chiefs of the parishes and townlands made another, more sullen ring. The air was crackling with tension and barely-restrained ire as arguments and proposals were hurled across the tent. For nearly two hours now the conclave had been in session and still was no closer to consensus. Men came forward to show the bubbled scars of pitchcappings and claimed that the entire army should march in haste to deliver retribution on the heads of those who perpetrated it. Others claimed they should avenge the dead of Carnew and Dunlavin by straightaway adding those dens of Orange iniquity to the list of towns set to accompany ravaged Enniscorthy. On and on it went, as men with no concept of military strategy were given free hand to throw whatever half-baked conceits or personal grudges they harboured into the general melting pot.

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ stated Dan bluntly.

  ‘A waste of time,’ added Miles Byrne.

  It was at this moment, when Dan felt that no direction would ever be found and that the vast army camped outside would surely fragment and drift away, that a growing uproar penetrated the walls of the tent. The din intensified as one of the men guarding the tent’s entrance pushed the canvas flap aside and called, ‘General Roche, you should see this.’

  ‘Adjourned, for the moment, gentlemen,’ stated Roche flatly, sweat glistening on his upper lip and matting his sideburns to his cheeks.’

  At his words the captains, grumbling and muttering amongst themselves, filed out.

  Dan and Miles blinked in the sudden effulgence and raised their hands to shield their eyes. They scanned the lower slopes to ascertain what might be prompting such a happy swell of noise. For happy it was, with no sense of panic or alarm about it. Just a multitude of voices raised in good cheer.

  Then, over the shoulder of hill to the south, the first small, ragged figure of a crowd of people came walking lightly, his young face aglow and calling out, ‘Edward Fitzgerald! It’s Edward Fitzgerald! He’s escaped and come back to us!’

  Behind the boy, surrounded by a flux of admiring forms, rode two men. One was older, with ascetic features and a weak chin, dressed in a once-lavish jacket that had seen better days. The other was splendidly mounted and dressed, wearing a gentleman’s tricorn and a frock coat that seemed brand-new, stained only here and there with the dust of his journey. He waved to people as he jogged his mount forward, smiling and gracious as a lord.

  At a little distance from the gathered leaders the crowd fell away, laughing and joking and crying, ‘Three cheers for Lord Edward and Mr Colclough!’ as though they were returning friends or long-lost relatives.

  Alone, the two horsemen covered the last twenty yards of stony ground and, without their flotilla of admirers, their faces assumed a much graver aspect. As Dan watched, Edward Fitzgerald, seemingly without thinking, reached down to where excited hands had twined a green ribbon into his horse’s mane. Unconsciously he loosed the piece of fabric and it floated elegantly to the ground to be trampled by his mount’s heavy stride.

  Dan frowned, troubled.

  Fitzgerald and Colclough dismounted in front of the assembled captains and immediately Edward Roche rushed to shake their hands. ‘By God, I am happy to see you! What of Harvey?’ he gushed.

  Fitzgerald was silent, his eyes roving from one captain to the next, seemingly transfixed by the sheer number of men that had flooded to the United banner.

  Colclough however, coughed politely and said, ‘Bagenal is unfortunately still detained at Wexford Gaol.’

  ‘Come,’ instructed Roche. ‘Sit with us and tell us how you executed your escape. I must say, you look in tolerable good health for a prisoner of the military.’

  Colclough and Fitzgerald exchanged awkward looks but followed Roche as he led them into the tent. The other captains trailed after, the ones who knew Fitzgerald happily informing the others that now, with ‘Lord Edward’ to lead them, they would storm Dublin Castle itself.

  ‘There’s something not quite right here,’ Dan muttered to Miles Byrne.

  Byrne’s young face was twisted around a fretful scowl. ‘I agree,’ he said. ‘I don’t like the condemned expression on Fitzgerald’s face. He is one of the most active and able gentlemen that I am acquainted with but to see him so cowed makes a mockery of everything I know him to be.’

  Dan lifted the tent flap, the canvas warm and rough, like a callus, to the touch, and allowed Byrne to go ahead of him. Inside, the tent was filled with a downy quiet that seemed to smother all noise at its conception. The colonels and General Roche were sitting at the round table with the captains spread out around the walls. Every eye was latched onto Edward Fitzgerald where he sat with Colclough, a little apart from the other leaders. Every eye except Anthony Perry’s, who instead directed his gaze into the blank lustre of the table top as though lost in his own thoughts.

  Fitzgerald coughed, paused, swallowed drily and then rubbed the heel of his palms across his closed eyes.

  Roche was frowning now and he urged, ‘Come on, Edward. Out with it.’

  Fitzgerald sighed and with a grimace said, ‘The numbers on this hill surpass my wildest dreams of what a United Army might look like in the field and your triumphs at the Harrow, Oulart and Enniscorthy are on the tongue of every person that we have encountered from here to Wexford. I had not hoped that we would be so successful and so soon.’

  ‘Why then, with a victorious army before you, do you seem so melancholy?’ asked Fr Murphy suspiciously.

  Fitzgerald cast his gaze aloft in despair and moaned, ‘Because we are alone. Because the rest of the country is subdued.’

  An outburst of anger and dismay flared through the gathered leaders before Roche silenced all by surging to his feet.

  ‘How can you say that?’ he demanded. ‘How could you possibly know?’

  ‘Colonel Maxwell who now commands Wexford Town with over a thousand men swore to me it was so.’

  ‘Lies!’ spat Fr Murphy, rising to stand with Roche. ‘Damned lies, spawned to dilute our spirit and cool the fire of our purpose.’

  Roche was leaning on the table, glaring at the men before him with a terrible discernment. ‘They sent you here, didn’t they?’ he asked, jabbing a thick finger first at Colcloough and then at Fitzgerald. ‘This Maxwell sent you here to ask for our surrender. And you consented to be his pigeon. For shame, gentlemen!’

  Colclough lowered his eyes, unable to meet Roche’s glare, but Fitzgerald’s face remained stoic and determined.

  ‘They sent us here with terms, Edward,’ explained Fitzgerald. ‘If you disband and go home now the rank and file along with their families and property will be spared. Otherwise, most terrible war will be unleashed upon every man woman and child in the county.’

  At these words a rolling thunder of fury and indignation rumbled through every one of the gathered captains. It was Miles Byrne’s young voice, however, that cut through the rumbling anger and belled forth strong and clear, ringing with his irrepressible self-assurance.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he began, ‘the sheer gall of you to express such sentiments astounds me and beggars belief. Are you aware of the absurdity of telling a victorious army to disperse and go to their homes, and there wait until they might be shot in detail?

 
‘What these “terms”, and I would hesitate to put such a name on what amounts to mere doggerel, serve to indicate is how panic-struck the garrison of Wexford Town really is.’

  A general murmur of agreement rippled about the tent at Byrne’s words.

  ‘If we were to descend on Wexford swiftly, like the wrath of God Himself, we must surely take the town and all its supplies,’ stated Fr Murphy hammering the table with his fist.

  Another captain, unknown to Dan and wearing an ivory cravat, most likely stolen from some gentleman’s wardrobe and badly knotted about his own grimy throat, roared in approval, ‘I’m for that! We should drive them across the water to Wales!’

  A great cheer went up from the gathering at this and, as Dan watched, cohesion and accord began to gel men together who had, only minutes before, been about to fling the entire United Irish enterprise into oblivion rather than have their individual vendettas thwarted. Hands were shaken that before had been balled into fists and men were suddenly galvanised and eager, anxious to be on the road to Wexford Town.

  Amongst them, however, John Hay and William Barker frowned and said nothing. Their advice and their good sense had been washed away on a flood tide of enthusiasm and anger. The terms offered by Maxwell had pricked the leadership’s pride and given direction to all the pent-up frustration and energy that had moments before been without any obvious outlet.

  Edward Fitzgerald and John Henry Colclough watched in awe and despair as the men they had sought to protect from an all-out war were now set inflexibly upon that very path. The guilt that Fitzgerald felt in the pit of his stomach was like something alive and squirming.

  Outside Roche’s tent, Colclough was unceremoniously dumped into his saddle. All about and on the slopes sweeping down to where Enniscorthy smouldered, spitting and coughing like a dying man, corps of insurgents were raising banners and cries went soaring into the air: ‘Bargy men to your colours!’ and ‘Shelmalier men, to me!’ Over and over the calls rang out, multiplying and re-echoing until Vinegar Hill was a swarming mass of men coming together by company and forming about the emerald banners of their own parish and barony.

  Colclough looked about him in mingled pride and fear and then turned to Edward Roche who stood at his horse’s head. ‘Are you sure you wish me to communicate those exact words?’

  Roche nodded deliberately, just once, his chin ducking into the flesh of his jowls and said, ‘Those exact words. Tell Maxwell that as long as he holds Harvey, then we keep Fitzgerald and that no terms on his part will be listened to other than the complete surrender of the town.’

  Colclough nodded, took one last look as the vast camp mobilising about him and replied, ‘As you wish, General.’

  Then he was gone, spurring his horse southward toward Wexford, dust and flies left hanging in his wake.

  Dan watched the man thunder away and considered how simple, once a purpose had been decided upon, it had been to marshal the men and delegate duties. Within minutes, committees had been established to oversee the supply and welfare of the men. A semblance of order was to be restored to the desolate hell that Enniscorthy had become and Vinegar Hill was to be the main depot and rallying point for all United forces. William Barker was elected to oversee the repair and defence of the town that he loved and had grown up in. Officers from each parish, with a small cohort of pikemen each, were immediately tasked with providing supplies and provisions for the fighting men. The swollen bulk of Vinegar Hill was to become the main reservoir of food, with the women and children remaining to bake bread and cook the meat. The garrison at Enniscorthy under Barker was to be replenished and relieved at regular intervals by men newly arrived at the camp. Vinegar Hill was to become a symbol of abstract defiance, a place not just of upheaval but of organisation and self-reliance as well. A new order was being born; bloodied and bawling in the sunlight.

  Dan was pleased that Roche and Murphy had been at pains to order Thomas Dixon and his men to join the long column facing south. The two leaders had separated Dixon and his fellow zealot, Luke Byrne, by virtue of the fact that they belonged to separate corps. Byrne was left behind on the hill, stewing in chagrin, whilst Dixon stood grumbling at the head of his men, craning his neck back towards the windmill and the prisoners within.

  Elizabeth, however, was to prove an entirely more difficult problem. She stood outside their little den of blanket and gorse, arms akimbo and eyes flashing.

  ‘Don’t be such a fool, Daniel Banville,’ was her response to his request that she remain at Enniscorthy.

  ‘Elizabeth,’ he said, infuriated, ‘why must you be so stubborn?’

  Her eyes widened at this and her lips tightened with anger. ‘And why must you be such a fuddy-duddy?’

  Tom, who was busying himself with buckling on sword and pistols, sniggered derisively.

  Dan ignored him and pleaded with Elizabeth, ‘This might very well prove to be a most bloody encounter. There are over a thousand troops at Wexford and here, at least, Mr Barker shall have crews of men rebuilding the town. You shall be safe here amongst the women.’

  ‘No, I shan’t,’ she replied. ‘Half the women here will not even look at me let alone afford me any assistance or kind words. I am coming with you Daniel and I am not for turning on this.’

  Dan knew it was pointless to argue further.

  Tom then stood and pointed, his expression curdled into a snarl. ‘That horrible termagant is coming too, it seems.’

  Down the slope towards the fighting men, the bloated form of the questioning woman from the other day stumped through the gorse and long grass. Her lumpen arms were enfolded about a bundle of clothes and a cooking pot swung by a length of twine from one meaty shoulder. Her gaze swept the hillside in half-lidded disdain as though to offer challenge to the world, as though she were at eternal war with life itself.

  As she passed the assembling column of rebels, which now stretched from Enniscorthy to more than a mile beyond its southern boundary, she paused and, bending all of her great bulk forward, she kissed Thomas Dixon on the cheek.

  ‘Well, glory be to God,’ exclaimed an astounded Dan. ‘Will you look at that.’

  ‘Shite will always attract flies,’ commented Tom, for which he received a chiding slap on the arm from Elizabeth.

  With everything arranged as best they could, the little group moved down into the valley amidst a horde of others, men leaping over hummocks, pikes in hand, hurrying to their companies. As they reached the foot of the hill, Elizabeth made to turn right, intending to join the still numerous flock of women and children who had decided to remain with the column rather than stay in the relative safety of Enniscorthy and its environs. As she took her first step away from him, Dan seized her by the shoulder, turned her and kissed her passionately. Tom directed his gaze downward and scuffed at the dirt with the toe of his boot.

  ‘If Dixon can get a kiss before marching off in the hot sun,’ Dan said rather breathlessly, ‘then I don’t see why I shouldn’t.’

  Elizabeth stared up at him with a stunned expression, her eyes somewhat dazed, her mouth slack. She swallowed once and replied, ‘Mr Banville, how indecorous of you.’

  With that, she adjusted her battered sun-bonnet and made her way off to the rear.

  Laughing, Dan and Tom strode quickly to take their place at the head of the Castletown men. A green standard, stitched with harps and shamrocks and emblazoned with the word ‘Liberty’, hung from a banner pole above their front rank. The banner man was a young farmer who recognised them immediately. ‘Captain Banville,’ he greeted with a nod. ‘Young Mr Banville. I hope you are well.’

  Tom stared at the man in frank surprise and said, ‘Jim Kehoe! And I thought you were a peaceable young fellow with no interest in anything except barley and potatoes, and you a United Irishman?’

  Kehoe nodded, ‘That I am. Me and Captain Banville took the oath at the same time, didn’t we Captain Banville?’

  ‘That we did, Jim,’ said Dan. ‘Now stop calling me “Captai
n”.’

  Tom was shaking his head, flummoxed. ‘Am I the only one in the whole parish who wasn’t a United man?’ he asked.

  Dan patted his brother on the back, a wide smile breaking across his broad features, ‘You know, I think you may very well have been.’

  The minutes dragged on as stragglers were rounded up and added to the ever-growing multitude of pike- and gunsmen. The column was now a formidable thing of vast numbers and honed steel. At its core were six thousand men who had stormed a principal town and wrested it from a well-armed garrison. At its core was a fearless determination.

  And yet Tom was troubled.

  In spite of the rebel army’s successes thus far, in spite of its burgeoning numbers, there was a blank where there should have been something vital. The lack of cannon, cavalry and ready supplies of ammunition were unfortunate, and to Tom, insurmountable – but something else was dragging a saw blade across his nerves. The prevarication shown by the leadership over the best course of action, the arguments and the parochialism as related by Dan did not bode well for the future. John Hay and William Barker had been forgotten in the rush to exterminate an already beaten army, huddling and afraid in Wexford Town.

  New Ross, he thought. We should be marching on New Ross.

  At length a bugle sounded from the vanguard of the rebel army and corps after corps of men began the march to Wexford Town. Above the column, pikes and pole-arms made a rattling forest of needling black, swaying and weaving in rhythm to the men’s gait. Each pike head glistened where oil and whetstones had done their work, polishing the blade and hook and sharpening their lethal edge. Thousand upon thousand, rank on rank, the United Irish Army snaked along the road, men binding neckerchiefs about their noses and mouths against the dust of their passing.

  Out ahead, Miles Byrne and his Monaseed contingent had taken up the familiar role of vedette for the mass of fighting men behind. They ranged along the road and criss-crossed the fields to either side but no word of ambuscade or counter-attack came back from them.