by Joe Murphy
But for the moment he could do nothing to help the other corps who threw themselves upon the barricades and cannon. He focused his attention on storming the building from whose windows a withering fire was being directed into the street below.
‘John!’ he called. ‘John Kelly!’
Kelly half turned to him, his body flattened against a heavy door, and shook his head almost imperceptibly. ‘We are pinned here!’ he roared. ‘They repulsed our first attack and have made a killing ground here – we must flank them somehow!’
Kelly’s mouth moved then as though he were issuing instructions but his words were lost in the chattering fire of another volley of lead from the building ahead.
Gesturing to his men to remain where they were, Dan dashed forward, bent almost double and half-expecting to be hammered from his feet by a musket ball at any moment. Then Kelly’s shouting voice brought his head up.
‘Get back, Dan!’ he yelled. ‘Come around with Cloney!’
And in that instant, that tiny fragment of time in which Kelly directed his full attention at Dan, he leaned forward slightly. Dan had neither time to scream a warning nor a chance to avert his eyes.
The musket ball shattered Kelly’s thigh like the fall of a sledge.
With a roar of agony and rage, the Bantry man collapsed forward into the street where the earth immediately began to whip up in angry wisps of grit. The men closest to Kelly reached out, scrambling to seize him before the soldiers could complete their work and hauled his massive frame close in to the sheltering wall.
Dan remained rooted to the spot for a moment before the droning hiss of lead and the words ‘Move, Mr Banville!’ brought him to his senses. Diving forward, he skirted along the right-hand side of the street to where Kelly lay.
Kelly was surrounded by a small group of his men who were busy knotting their jackets about pikestaffs so as to make a makeshift stretcher for him. Dan saw the distress on their faces, the numb disbelief and terrible fear at the loss of Kelly.
Kelly lay clutching at his bloodied thigh, red gushing from between his fingers, drenching his clothes and clotting in the calluses and wrinkles of his hands.
Dan bent over him, trying as best he could to look the wounded man in the face without leaning too far into the street himself. ‘John,’ he said. ‘What should we do?’
Kelly looked up at him with eyes glazing in shock and anguish. He drew in a long shuddering breath before reciting his words in a rush.
‘Have Cloney come around from behind. That barracks is separating us from Boxwell. Unless it is taken we cannot gain the docks. Damn Harvey for this. He has done for me.’
He groaned then as a kneeling rebel strove to unhook Kelly’s bear paws from about the yawning pit of the wound.
‘Go!’ Kelly’s voice quivered. ‘Find Cloney.’
Dan nodded once and placed a gentle hand upon the bleeding man’s shoulder. The deplorable inadequacy of the gesture galled him but he could do nothing more.
Turning, he ran back along the wall against which his men were pressed in a long, wary line. Even the irrepressible Rouse was panting and a cold pallor swam below his tan skin. ‘What do we do now, Mr Banville?’ he asked through gritted teeth.
‘Join with the Bantry men,’ Dan ordered. ‘Do as they do. I shall return with reinforcements as swiftly as I am able.’
The men regarded him grimly as he went, the last in the line, a young lad of no more than fifteen, muttering ‘Be careful, Mr Banville’ as he passed. Dan smiled his thanks to the boy and flung himself into the coiling smoke.
Cloney’s column had gone right when they entered the town and so Dan now darted left. All about him the dead and dying lay piled in rumpled heaps, red coats mingled with the drab coloureds of the peasantry, all alike in the terrible equality of death. From out of the smoke came cheers and huzzahs, screams, and the clashing of steel on steel.
Sprinting now, Dan entered Neville Street and physically recoiled at the carnage he saw. Rebel corpses stacked one upon the other, felled like logs or sheaves of wheat. The ground itself was a rich burgundy of spilled blood and under the acrid tang of powder smoke the coppery stink of death lodged in the back of his throat.
Nevertheless, amidst the rebel corpses, the scarlet coats of soldiers were visible even here. For all their casualties, Dan thought, they were pushing back the garrison.
Blundering through the smoke, almost tripping more than once over a prone rebel or the groaning agonies of a dying soldier, Dan stumbled into the junction of Church Lane and Mary Street. In every direction violence was a hectic universal, vile in its intimacy as muskets barked and men screamed, bayonets and pikes clashed and slid home. Such visceral savagery on so grand a scale had not been witnessed at Oulart or Enniscorthy. Insurgents charged barricades and were blown back by musketry and cannon, tumbling in groups of twenty only to be replaced by others, screaming in fear and frenzy, driving on because they couldn’t now turn back. Men died and bled and howled and Dan stood at the gore-splashed crossroads and cast about frantically for the figure of Thomas Cloney.
Ahead of him Church Lane was a slaughterhouse clotted with powder smoke. But as he watched, through the choking mist, he thought he saw Cloney fling himself to the ground, thought he heard his voice bellowing out over the scream of battle.
Dan took two steps forward, his mouth already forming the first syllable of Cloney’s name, when a fey whim of summer air caught the curtain of murk and rolled it to one side. Through the empty, curling whorl that opened before him like a tunnel, Dan saw several things. He saw a shredded band of rebels standing, dumbfounded, before the maw of a massive, brass nine-pounder. He saw their comrades fling themselves to one side. He saw Thomas Cloney lying flat against the ground, turn to look at him, horror flaying his features. He saw the gunner behind the cannon touch a fizzing fuse to its touch hole. He saw the desultory feather of burning powder as the charge ignited.
All this he saw in crystal clarity, each piece complete and whole in and of itself. And then Dan Banville saw no more.
PART THREE
THE SLANEY’S RED WAVE
CHAPTER 21
Taking Leave
The rebel camp at Gorey Hill on the 8th of June was a place of carnival. The sun had risen and now hung heavily in the late afternoon sky pouring a bright, permeating heat over the countryside. The town of Gorey was alive with activity as throngs of people laughed and lounged, confident that they were masters of their domain.
Tom Banville, however, was in a venomous mood.
The now familiar failings of the insurgent leadership had resurfaced since the victory at Tubberneering, and he was sick to his teeth with it. In the two days since Edward Roche’s departure, the bickering and arguing amongst the men he had left behind had become a festering canker of rancour and ill-feeling.
Roche had ridden off late on the 6th to procure a much-needed supply of gunpowder from Wexford Town and to discover the reasons behind the disturbing silence that had emanated from the south of the county since the 4th. Nothing had been heard from either Matthew Keogh in the town itself or from Bagenal Harvey who, by this time, must surely have been at the walls of Waterford.
He had ridden off leaving two of his closest friends in nominal command of the massive army sprawled in and around Gorey Town. Anthony Perry and Fr Philip Roche were to lead in his absence, a prospect greeted with blustering outrage by Fr Michael Murphy and with grim resignation by Fr John, a man who seemed to be growing steadily more marginalised. It was as if the country curate was a source of vague embarrassment to the United Irishmen around him, like he was an uninvited guest.
Of course, Miles Byrne was indignant at Fr John’s treatment. The young captain had become a staunch supporter of the priest from Boolavogue ever since Enniscorthy and was appalled at the supporting role he was being forced to play.
And the toing and froing, the twisting and endless arguments about strategy, had begun all over again.
It was assumed that
a march on Arklow was inevitable and so the entire army had set out on the 7th to ensure that General Loftus had indeed abandoned the county and was not lurking somewhere behind them. They had reached Carnew without incident and were told that the good general had retired all the way to Tullow in County Carlow. The entire north of the county was theirs. The men celebrated by burning every loyalist home they could find.
It was at this point that the first cracks began to web darkly through the insurgent command.
Fr John Murphy and Fr Michael Murphy had almost come to blows. The latter demanding an immediate advance on Arklow whilst Fr John and the majority of the men from Wicklow argued that a war of stealth waged from the safety of the Wicklow Mountains would keep both north Wexford and the road to Dublin free of Crown forces. The French, Fr John was adamant, must be given time to land. The rebels must remain in the field long enough to give the French a chance to come to their aid. Risking everything in set-piece battles was foolishness. Fr Michael stopped just short of accusing him of cowardice.
And yet, reflected Tom, something had altered in the bearing of Fr John Murphy. For a man renowned for his peaceable nature, a man determinedly opposed an armed Rising mere days before he himself sparked the conflict that had consumed his county, the violence being done must surely have been terrible to behold. He was a priest, first and foremost; he tended to his flock. The fact of his responsibility, his complicity, in the slaughter of hundreds of innocents squirmed like rats in his brain. Tom thought the man was at breaking point, labouring beneath a yoke of guilt.
The executions had not helped matters.
Just after Carnew, two prisoners were brought before Anthony Perry. He greeted them both like old friends, throwing his arms around them in a fierce embrace. One was Rogan and the other was Wheatley, the men who had boiled Perry’s flesh from his scalp, the men who had driven him to the brink of madness.
It took Perry some time to kill Wheatley. Rogan less so; Wheatley’s screams echoing in his ears had dulled the edge of Perry’s cruelty somewhat. Yet the relish with which he had dispatched them had disturbed all who witnessed it. No matter the scars, no matter Perry’s constant suffering, the joy he took in slaughtering them was terrible to watch.
After this, Fr John silent and pale, the United Irish officers had decided that Arklow must be taken and after that Dublin would surely fall. Tom remembered that Fr Michael had smiled at this and had flung a gloating look towards Fr John.
Now, a day later, Tom sat in the shade of the tremendous beech tree that spread over Gorey’s market diamond and flicked pebbles into the dust of the thoroughfare. His mind was mired in black contemplation, his thoughts wandering south to where his brother was doing God knew what. The silence from the Southern Division had grown in his imagination, from being a source of vague unease to a full front of malignancy.
He should never have left his brother behind. He should never have allowed himself to be taken in by Dan’s words. He was not needed here. He was an appendix of the greater organism, and the Northern Division would unravel with or without him, it was only a matter of time. He flung another pebble with a force that sent it skittering off into the distance.
From behind him the sound of pounding footsteps brought him to his feet. Tom stepped around the furrowed bole of the tree and watched a young boy of no more than twelve come lolloping down the rutted earth of the market diamond. His bare feet kicked up little clouds of dust as he pounded along. The boy’s face bore the fierce determination of one to whom a great mission had been entrusted, and his little forehead was creased in concentration. So intent was the boy on the object of his mad dash that he nearly collided with Tom.
The boy looked up at him with wide eyes and panted, ‘Do you know where Fr John is, sir?’
Tom frowned in curiosity, ‘He was saying mass an hour ago. I would presume he’s retired to his rooms. Why are you looking for him?’
The boy considered this for a moment before answering with brazen confidence, ‘I’m only to talk to Fr Murphy.’
Tom regarded the boy levelly and asked, ‘Do you know me, lad?’
The boy nodded slowly, ‘You’re Captain Banville, sir.’
Tom grinned, ‘That I am. Now, I was thinking of heading down to Fr Murphy myself, so you might as well tell me and save yourself the journey.’
The boy considered this for a moment before relenting. He pointed back the way he had come, toward the mass of bodies on the crest of Gorey Hill, and said, ‘There’s a messenger come from the south. Mr Perry wants Fr Murphy straight away.’
At the boy’s words Tom’s heart bucked with excitement and dread. Fighting to keep his voice calm, he said to the lad before him, ‘Thank you, son. I shall go and fetch Fr John immediately.’
The boy grinned at him impishly, ‘Mr Perry said I’d get a ha’penny for my troubles.’
Tom fished the small copper coin from out of his pocket and distractedly tossed it to the boy, who spun and barrelled away, his ha’penny held high like a trophy.
A messenger from the south, thought Tom as he turned and hurried down into town. Surely he must have news from New Ross. Surely Munster must have risen. Surely Dan must be alive.
Fr John Murphy had taken up residence in a rather finely appointed townhouse on Gorey’s main street. He had been heard to remark that it was poor recompense for the loss of his own modest home and chapel. Outside the house a man Tom recognised as James Gallagher kept careful guard.
Gallagher saluted as Tom approached, ‘Captain.’
Tom returned the salute and asked, ‘Is the good padre within?’
Gallagher smiled, ‘He is, sir. I believe he is upstairs.’
Tom thanked the man and passed through the door, already open to allow a cooling draught to help lift the stifling heat of the house.
Immediately inside the door, a wooden stairway climbed the right-hand wall. Tom mounted them carefully, the well-worn heels of his riding boots making small clunks on the varnished wood. The stairway opened out at its head to a long corridor lined on one side by the doors of four bedrooms. The nearest door was slightly ajar and a narrow band of light, slim as a finger, glowed out from the room.
Through this gap, narrow though it was, a voice could be heard as though engaged in quiet conversation.
Tom approached slowly, his footsteps silent and delicate. Words came to his ears, soft and fluttering but weighted with an urgency and raw emotion that startled him. In the privacy of his room, Fr Murphy was praying.
‘Forgive me, Father. I have wronged you and brought havoc down upon all I held dear in my life. Please, God, grant me the strength to see this out.’
Then, in a manner completely unlike the usual dull drone of a man intoning his prayers, Fr Murphy began to recite the Act of Contrition, investing every word and syllable with a fervour that took Tom’s breath away. Standing outside the little bedroom, Tom felt embarrassed. To listen as a man bore his soul in such a fashion was an intimate thing and one which he was sure he should not divulge, even to Fr Murphy himself. Tom was in no doubt that the curate from Boolavogue would not be at all happy having his privacy so shattered.
Tom waited a moment before coughing politely and rapping his knuckles on the panelled bedroom door.
There came the quiet, moth wing sounds of a man composing himself and then Fr Murphy’s voice came with all the old bravado that Tom had come to expect, ‘Come in. Come in. What’s the matter that you must disturb a man at prayer?’
Tom entered the room and began to salute reflexively before the priest snapped at him, ‘Enough of that, Banville. Come now, what’s the news?’
Tom regarded Fr Murphy for a long moment. The man was pale and unshaven, his eyes nestled in a cushion of dark wrinkles. He stood with one elbow resting jauntily on the mantelpiece of the fireplace, yet his bearing had all the weary slackness of a man who had not slept in an age.
‘Father,’ said Tom at length, ‘a message has come from the south. Mr Perry desires your pres
ence.’
Fr Murphy breathed deeply, puffing out his barrel chest and squaring the loose set of his shoulders. Suddenly bluff and bullish once more, he replied, ‘Then lead on, Mr Banville.’
Only the slight roughness that burred his voice betrayed the depth of his exhaustion.
On Gorey Hill a ring of the United leaders had formed about a lone horseman. Tom and Fr Murphy squeezed through the outer ring of captains and were greeted with handshakes from Anthony Perry and a dour-faced Miles Byrne.
‘That appears to be everyone,’ said Perry in his northern twang. ‘On with you, so.’
The horseman, a young man with a long scab slashing across his right jaw, cleared his throat and read in a clear voice from a piece of paper held aloft in his left hand.
At a meeting of the general and several officers of the United Army of the county of Wexford, the following resolutions were agreed upon:
It is ordered that a guard shall be kept in the rear of the different armies, with orders to shoot all persons who shall shy or desert from any engagement; and that these orders shall be taken notice of by all officers commanding in such engagement. All men refusing to obey their superior officers, to be tried by court martial and punished according to their sentence.
It is also ordered that all men who shall attempt to leave their respective quarters when they have been halted by the commander-in-chief, shall suffer death, unless they shall have leave from their officers for so doing.
It is also resolved that any person or persons who shall take it upon them to kill or murder any person or prisoner, burn any house, or commit any plunder, without special written orders from the commander-in-chief, shall suffer death.
By order of: B. B. Harvey, Commander-in-Chief
Francis Breen, Sec. and Adj.
Head Quarters, Carrickbyrne Camp
June 6, 1798