Dark Rosaleen

by Michael Nicholson, OBE

  Sir William did not think it important but he nodded. ‘Of course. But before you go, Martineau, tell me, what news of Captain Shelley? Has he been seen again?’

  ‘No, sir. Not since that report from Killarney. But we will find him. He cannot hide for long and he is no use to himself or others unless he is making mischief in the open.’

  ‘God knows what we’ll do when we catch him. I’d shoot him myself. Damn the man, his treachery and his double-dealing. A British officer and supposedly a gentleman. And eating at my table!’

  ‘Be patient, Sir William. Just a while longer. Then you’ll see. We will draw him out.’

  ‘The man’s a fool, Martineau. They say he burnt his uniform but kept his army boots. What do you make of that?’

  ‘Let us not underestimate him. Remember it is a wise caution to fear the man who has nothing to lose.’ He bowed once more and left the room, closing the door gently behind him.

  There was no one moment when Kate and Moran declared themselves allies. No formal pact, no secret signals. He would hear of things happening as far north as Sligo and Monaghan or as far west as Tralee and she would know that Shelley was still alive. For a month now she had been working with her father, copying and filing instructions to his agents, redrafting his hastily written letters, correcting his grammar. She found it no more and no less interesting than reading Trollope in the library, but she was now intimate with confidential information and there was little that happened within the Commission she was not aware of. Shelley had asked her to be his conspirator and now she was perfectly placed. She would be careful not to appear too interested, too diligent, and remember to heed his warning, that not all around her was quite what it seemed.

  Dr Martineau had finally decided on a way to rid himself of Shelley without the risk of incriminating himself. He had chosen the place and the method of his execution. Droplets of information would be fed to Kate and she would, he knew, pass these on to Shelley. Early in March, he set his trap and waited.

  A mixed cargo of flour sent by the Quakers and barrels of ship’s biscuits, sent from the Royal Naval Dockyard in Portsmouth, had recently arrived in Cork and was due to be sent south to Skibbereen. Martineau ordered it instead to be trans-shipped to the small port of Kinvara in Galway Bay. There it would be stored in the Commission’s newly built depot for later distribution. A platoon of well-armed Fusiliers would be aboard the ship en route and once the cargo was unloaded and their officer was satisfied it was safely stored in the depot under lock and key, they were to return to their barracks.

  Some members of the Commission questioned whether it was prudent to leave so many tons of food unguarded, but Martineau reminded them that the military were better employed elsewhere. It was wiser, he said, to have them in their garrison ready for any emergency than to have them grow fat and lazy guarding food stocks. He assured them that the depot was secure, built of brick, well roofed and with strong doors. Few ever questioned his judgement. They knew him to be profoundly efficient, a man who planned everything to the very last detail. So they agreed that the troops should do as Martineau had recommended and he was pleased.

  It was the first day of spring. There was warmth in the sun. Primulas and primroses, wild anemones and celandine rose up to carpet the grass. The curling woodbine was in new leaf, entwining its tentacles through the hedges and there was a cuckoo in the woods. As each day passed, the land became brighter and greener and with spring came the resurgence, once again, of hope.

  It was now that men thought of their potatoes. It was time once again for the annual ritual of praying for a long, generous summer of warm westerlies and a full harvest. Sick, weak and hungry men found strength to work their plots, turning back the turf, cutting away the gorse and bramble. Across all of Ireland there was a frenzy of planting. Everything was sold to the gombeen man – the last chair, a hair comb, a marriage ring – for a handful of pennies to buy the seed potatoes. It was the last desperate stake.

  Kate felt the surge that spring gives and began taking her mare out again beyond the walls of the city. She saw families spread across the fields, men, women and their children on their knees. Those without shovels were turning over the earth with sticks and bare hands, breaking up the clods. Others followed with a dibber and dropped the cut and dressed seed potatoes into the neat drills, nursing them into soft cradles, crossing themselves for God’s blessing. Every inch of the plots was patted into place, the line of the trenches as straight and neat as a shovel could work them. Never had the symmetry been so perfect, never had expectations been so great. From Bantry to Lough Swilly, from Cape Clear to Malin Head, they prayed more for their potatoes than they did for their own souls.

  John Shelley, former captain in the 49th, had spent many fretful days and nights planning for this night and this raid. It could not fail. He would not let it. Too much was at stake. Too many starving people were depending on him. To return with nothing would condemn them to die as surely as if they were struck by the plague. What would save them was the food, less than a mile away in the Commission’s depot, right under the shadow of Dunguaire Castle.

  Shelley had made a long and tortuous journey since the day he turned away from the England he had loved, burnt his regimental uniform and buried his sword and pistol. He kept only his boots. Soon afterwards he was recruited by a band of rebels who called themselves the Ribbonmen. But in time they proved too violent for him, dedicated as they were to murder and mayhem, torching the landlords’ estates, terrorising those who laboured on them, burning crops and cutting the hamstrings of cattle. So he formed a following of his own. They had no name, no banner to fight under, no brutal intimidation and they carried no weapons. They were few but they did what others did not. They stole from the well fed to feed the hungry poor.

  He was at Ennis in Clare when he received the message from Kate. It told him of the shipment of food arriving in Kinvara and where it would be stored. It told him of the escort of Fusiliers and of their orders to return to barracks once the food had been securely stored. As he read her note, the risks and doubts that, as a military man, should have made him cautious and suspicious were overwhelmed by the prospect of such a bounty so easily taken.

  He had checked every last detail of his plan. The break-in would be easy. Emptying the depot would take time and labour but time was with them. The nearest army garrison was over twenty miles away in Galway town. And behind them, sheltering by Kinvara’s harbour wall, was the labour: over a hundred families, willing and desperate men, women and their children, waiting for the signal to come and carry away what they believed was theirs to take.

  ‘This is not right, Mr Shelley. All this food and nobody here. Where are the guards?’

  ‘Stop your worrying, Declan. The soldiers have long gone. People here saw them go and nobody has seen them return. They swear to it. The place is quiet.’

  ‘But it makes no sense. Tons of it there, just waiting for us. Something is wrong, something’s up, I can sense it and I don’t like it.’

  ‘Declan. Steady yourself. We’ve come a long way and we’ll not be hasty. We will wait as long as we have to. We made a promise, remember, and lives depend on it.’

  ‘Just as soon as this mist lifts and we can see a bit of light, send a man ahead to scour the place. Tell him not to hide himself, be open, just pass it by and back again. Tell him to do a circle of it, let him be seen. If there’s military there he’ll draw them out of their hiding place.’

  ‘Better I send my son Ronan. If they are there, they may not harm a boy but they’ll take a man for sure and keep him.’

  ‘Can you depend on him?’

  ‘With my life.’

  ‘Then let him go. And mind what I said. Let him be seen.’

  ‘And if he doesn’t come back?’

  ‘Then we must be away.’

  ‘I must leave my son here?’

  ‘We will have no choice.’

  ‘Then I will stay.’

  ‘I understand.’<
br />
  They sat in a circle, the ten of them, Shelley cross-legged at their centre, all shrouded by the early morning mist drifting off the sea. They did not speak. They had nothing to say. They had walked five days to be here and were weary and hungry like those they had come to save, and hungrier still, knowing the feast that was stored so close. So they sat in silence, waiting for the young boy to return.

  ‘Mr Shelley, he’s been gone now an hour or more and the depot is only a half a mile off. How much longer do we wait?’

  ‘You said you trusted him’.

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Then you must trust him a little longer.’

  ‘What if they’ve taken him?’

  ‘We would have heard the commotion. Soldiers do nothing quietly.’

  ‘Should I go myself?’

  ‘Sit still, Declan. And all of you be patient. We’ve come too far to be reckless now.’

  The first touch of warmth of the sun was on their backs when they saw the boy again. He came running but he was smiling too.

  ‘There’s no one there, Mr Shelley,’ he said, panting. ‘I went round and around and …’

  ‘Easy, Ronan.’ Shelley held him by the shoulder. ‘Get your breath, boy, and tell us what you saw or didn’t see.’

  ‘That’s it, sir. I saw nothing and no one. I went up and down, making out I was searching for something I’d lost, stopping and looking at the ground but all the time I had my eye on the big barn. Then I went around the back of it and banged on the doors but nothing happened.’

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ Declan said. ‘Leaving it like that. Why should they do that, Mr Shelley?’

  ‘This is a long way from the troubles. Maybe that’s why they’ve stored it here. Whatever the reason, it’s ours now. Come, let’s go and get it.’

  The depot was just as Martineau had described: a large barn, windowless, built of brick with strong oak double doors, coupled together by a single chain and padlock. The deep ruts made by the wagons that had brought the food from the harbour were still visible in the soft earth. For some minutes they stood by the doors waiting, as if they were unable or unwilling to believe that all they had prayed for had come about. How many times had they risked their lives to bring food to those who had none? How many times had they fought with their bare hands against men with knives who had tried to take it from them? How many times had they come close to utter despair, without hope, not knowing what to do next?

  Shelley gave the nod and Declan’s crowbar wrenched the lock away with one single pull. The doors were pulled open and they were inside. Ten men and a boy stood silent in the half light, stunned by the sight of so much food, the rows of barrels and sacks stacked so neatly and suddenly all theirs to take. Shelley beckoned to Ronan and almost in a whisper said, ‘Go, boy, go fast to the harbour and tell them to come as quick as they can. If they have carts, bring them too. Tell them there’s plenty for all.’

  The bullet of the first rifle shot pierced a sack and flour came trickling out onto the floor. The second cracked open a barrel stave.

  ‘Stay where you are, boy, or my third shot will be yours.’

  The officer was behind them in the half light. He came forward, a pistol in his hand, flanked by six of his men, their rifles at their shoulders.

  ‘Welcome, Mr Shelley. We have been camped here for ten very long days and nights waiting for you and your gang. It has not been a pleasant stay. This is the most rotten place to be but you are, at last, our reward. I must admit I had my doubts you would come. But they said you would, they were certain. They said you’d not be able to resist.’ He waved his pistol towards the stacks of food.

  ‘They said this was the bait to catch you and catch you we have. It has been cleverly done, you must grant them that. Twenty-two of us came but only sixteen of us left. And your little watchdogs out there didn’t notice. You must admit it was very well planned.’

  ‘What now?’ asked Shelley. ‘Will you take me and let these men go?’

  ‘Oh! No. It’s not like that at all. There is no deal, Mr Shelley. I have my orders and I think you know what they might be.’

  ‘I expect a trial. I am a former English officer.’

  ‘You are a traitor, Mr Shelley. Once you wore this uniform and when you threw it off you must have known the penalty.’

  ‘I demand you arrest me and me alone. What I have done I have done for my reasons. Let me face the tribunal and I’ll accept the punishment.’

  ‘Not so, Mr Shelley. Not so.’

  ‘I demand to be heard.’

  ‘Too late, Mr Shelley. Too, too late. You have already been judged and condemned.’

  He turned to his squad, their rifles still at their shoulders.

  ‘Sergeant, close the doors. We have business to finish here.’

  Kate was out that day to meet Edward Ogilvie at Kinsale, some twenty miles south of Cork. The rendezvous was not of her choosing. The more she met him the more repulsive she found him. It was election time and this was polling day. Ogilvie, confident he was about to become a Member in the Parliament of Westminster, was cantering about his constituency to ensure his tenants put their crosses to his name. Few dared to disappoint him.

  The town was like a fair on market day, massed with people drawn out by the sun and the prospect of a spectacle. Even the pauper mothers and their ragged children seemed blushed with excitement. Kate had never been so enveloped by a swarm of so many people. The scent of burning peat from the tinkers’ fires, the sweat of the horses, the pungent smell of their oiled harnesses, the sweet wisps of tobacco smoke, was both suffocating and comforting. A man on a stool was blowing a tin whistle and men came and danced around him, then staggered their way drunken back to the shebeens for another mug of whiskey. Another man, wearing a scarlet jacket and a jester’s cap with bells on its tips, held up a sack, shouting, ‘A ha’penny a guess. A ha’penny to guess how many chickens I have inside my sack. And if you guess right you can have the pair of them.’

  In the corner of the square a man stood alone with a pig in a cart. He beckoned to her. ‘Look at the lovely lard on him,’ he said. ‘Look at his grand skull.’

  He stuck his broad finger into the belly of the little pale-eyed pig, took hold of its tail and pulled it out of its bed of straw. ‘Aye! There’s nine weeks of fattening in him.’

  At the bend of the square was a cow, old and thin; its udders had not given milk for years. Two men were arguing and Kate stepped closer to listen. They spat on their hands and whacked them together. ‘I’ll give you three pounds,’ said the buyer.

  ‘I’ll not take it,’ replied the seller.

  Then a third man introduced himself, for it always takes more than two to make a bargain in an Irish fair. ‘Divide the pound,’ he said, to begin the haggle.

  ‘Will ye split the pound?’ demanded the buyer.

  ‘I will not.’

  ‘Will ye give him to me then?’

  ‘I told you three pounds.’

  The buyer walked off.

  ‘You’ll be back,’ the seller shouted as men around him berated him for his obstinacy. The third man then ran after the buyer, seized his hand, pulled him back and smacked the buyer’s hand against the seller’s. They split the pound, the sale was made. The buyer took out his scissors and clipped his mark on the cow’s rump and the three men went off to celebrate the sale at one of the steaming, crowded pubs.

  Kate heard the sound of a hunting horn and at the far end of the market she saw Ogilvie. He was elegantly dressed with a black top hat, a pink hunting jacket and riding breeches of white broadcloth above his polished black knee boots. Blue ribbons were tied to his mare’s tail and neck. He rode at the head of a long line of men who walked hesitantly, awkward and morose as if they were being led to a funeral. Behind them she saw his own bully-boys, broad and heavy men, with a blunderbuss over their shoulders and a shillelagh in their belts.

  He was pleased to see her. He clapped his hands above the top hat and shouted above th
e din. ‘Kathryn, my dearest girl. What an exceptional honour. Your father promised me you would come but I didn’t dare expect to see you.’

  ‘I’ve never been to an election before,’ she shouted back. ‘Like your tumbling gangs, I suppose it’s something I ought not to miss.’

  He was grinning. ‘Kathryn, don’t be sour with me, not on a day like this. You might regret it. Tomorrow I will be a parliamentarian and I could have you transported to the other side of the world for insolence.’

  ‘Tell me what is happening, Edward. Who are these men behind you?’

  ‘My tenants. Freeholders who’ve come to vote for me. Not that they are very free, nor do they have much of a holding. But they are beholden and that’s what matters. Remember the hanging gale? They do and I don’t let them forget it.’

  He turned and stood in his saddle. He looked down and laughed at them. They did not look up.

  He said, ‘They’re not over fond of me but they’ll give me their cross or they’ll be out on their backsides. No vote, no tenancy. It’s a simple electoral choice.’

  ‘It’s blackmail.’

  He stood in his stirrups and spoke loudly, as if he wanted to hear himself speak, to listen to his own words, knowing that they could sound one way in the mind and yet sound quite different spoken aloud.

  ‘It’s nothing of the sort, Kathryn. Remember you’re in Ireland. Who do you think they would vote for if they weren’t obliged to vote for me? They’d go for one of their own and then what would we have? A Parliament of papists. Don’t call it blackmail. If the English want to keep this country, you must accept that what is happening here today is democratic and nothing less.’

  Kate said, ‘This is their country, Edward. It’s their future.’

  He laughed and raised his hat as he passed the paupers’ tents, mocking them. ‘The poor do not worry about the future. They worry only about today. Tomorrow is far too far away. And it is not their country. How often have I told you that land belongs to those who own it and my father owns this?’