He walked away from the row of cabins, not towards Killala, but higher up the hill. Twenty minutes brought him halfway to the top, and he turned to look down. A breeze shook the field of nettles and tall grasses. Far below him, the columns of marching men were not a mile from the town. There was no order to the shouting, gesturing crowds behind them. Sunlight glinted from a pike. The small stones by his feet were larger than the men, and the bushes larger than the shops and cabins. He stood quietly, bent forward, hugging his elbows.
PART TWO
7
FROM AN IMPARTIAL NARRATIVE
OF WHAT PASSED AT KILLALA
IN THE SUMMER OF 1798,
BY ARTHUR VINCENT BROOME
Should the present work find favour with the reader, it will not do so by reason of the careful account which I have sought to render of social life in a remote corner of western Ireland. My claim upon his attention derives, alas, from the mere fact that I was an unwilling witness to those most extraordinary and romantic occurrences, the French invasion of Ireland and the rebellion by the native Irish which followed in its wake. Several popular accounts of these transactions have been published, and in these I appear by name, as the Protestant clergyman whose house was requisitioned as the rebel headquarters. In one of these, I am credited with remarks and observations which ill accord either with my character or with my sacred calling. Additionally, the Mayo rising has received brief attention in general histories of the period, as a kind of Hibernian tailpiece. It is also the case, as I am informed, that these happenings have already passed, distorted and much exaggerated, into the lore of the peasantry, who cherish rude ballads of the battles waged and won, waged and lost. Within a few years’ time, the common people, in accordance with the processes of primitive poetical imagination, as these have universally been observed, have transformed into creatures of legend such most imperfect men as Randall MacDonnell, Cornelius O’Dowd, Owen MacCarthy, and Ferdy O’Donnell. And by similar processes, so ordinary and insignificant a person as Captain Samuel Cooper has become for them a kind of Homeric clown, a foil for rebel heroism, and Dennis Browne has become an ogre whose name is used to frighten children. And yet no orderly and impartial narrative has been given of those happenings upon which much depended that was of consequence to two, perhaps to three, nations.
I have no wish to offer a chronicle of picturesque exploits, some Irish equivalent of the ’Forty-five in Scotland or the wars of the Fronde. Indeed I would be ill equipped to do so, for although the insurrection swept far beyond the borders of Mayo, I know only of what happened in my own parish, and for the most part what I could observe from the windows of my own house. Of the whole of that insurrection, I believe it to be the case that it was attended by much savagery and more terror, made bright by a few patches of heroism and generosity. My canvas, however, is a far smaller one. The flamboyant and alien intrusion of the French into my parish of Killala acted as a chemical agent which brought to the point of explosion all the volatile and unstable elements of our small society. That explosion, and its aftermath, is my only subject.
As my reader knows, I had witnessed, benumbed and all but silent, events which would in England be unimaginable, men sent up for trial upon the most flimsy of concocted and perjured evidence, the King’s yeomen raking over a village like so many Turkish Janissaries, whipping men at their own doorposts, burning down houses and crops. But these measures were employed to suppress an undeniable conspiracy, which daily gained new adherents. Each side to that sordid and bloody contest but added fresh hatred and fear to the imaginings of the other. From the mutilation of cattle to the torture of men and at last to their murder were easy, senseless steps into savagery.
To such a pass had we come by the twenty-second day of August. I was on that afternoon busily at work in my small library, the very room in which I write the present lines, attending to my correspondence, with my dear wife Eliza seated in a comfortable chair to one side of me, as was her habit. A servant, bringing word to us that three British frigates had dropped anchor in Kilcummin Bay, set us both into commotion, for it seemed proper that we should stand ready to offer hospitality to the ships’ officers. We were not alone in this thought, for there was presently a stir and bustle in the high street, which is at a right angle to my residence, and observable from the library window. I could therefore witness Captain Cooper at his task of mustering the Tyrawley Yeomanry, who made as decent a showing as could be expected.
It was at two O’clock that John Sillerton, a gauger, rode into the street with the fateful news that we had all been deceived, and that the ships were now flying the French colours. I did not myself observe him, for at Eliza’s insistence I was then changing into my newer coat, but I did hear shouts, and shortly thereafter there was a pounding at the door of the Palace, as my house is grandiloquently termed. By the time I had come downstairs, a number of shopkeepers and their wives had entered, who beseeched me to give them safety. It was in this manner that I learned that the French soldiers had arrived and were now marching upon Killala.
I brushed past them, silently entrusting them to Eliza’s ministrations, and rushed outside in my shirt to talk with Captain Cooper, whom I discovered consulting with Mr. Gibson, a fellow magistrate. Most understandably, he waved me aside. He was to conduct himself upon this unhappy occasion in a manner much to his credit, very cool and resolute, if perhaps foolhardy. He had already despatched a rider to warn the garrison at Ballina. His task now was to decide whether or not to fight, and if to fight, then where. Outside the town, on the Kilcummin road, was a small hill called Mullaghorn. He considered advancing to hold it, but instead decided to give battle within the town itself, whose narrow streets might more easily be held against a superior force. He placed himself in front of his men, and asked if they stood ready to fight the invader. Their response was a heartwarming affirmative. Accordingly, he drew them up in line of battle. They were now, I could not but reflect, addressing themselves to a task more appropriate than that of burning the homes of their fellow countrymen. My patriotic sentiments were kindled.
At this point, I felt that I could best occupy myself within the Palace, and accordingly I walked back across the cobbled courtyard and entered the house. I discovered, to my annoyance, that all of its occupants—servants, shopkeepers, wives—had climbed upstairs to my library, and were peering out the window, as though witnessing a peepshow. I reproved them, sent them all to the kitchen for safety’s sake, and then took their place.
I had some time in which to collect my thoughts, and to marvel at what had befallen us. The long-dreaded invasion of Ireland by the soldiers of revolutionary and regicide France was at last taking place, and in the most unlikely corner of the entire island. My own parish in poor, barbarous Mayo had been seized by the scruff of the neck and flung into history. I knew not whether mere accident was at work, or some preconcerted plan of hideous intent, although in a dim manner I supposed that the French had somehow been summoned here by our local rebels. It soon became known, of course, that the three warships, making for Donegal, had been forced by the winds into our bay, but at the moment, all was mystery. The village street lay before me, quiet save for the sea wind, for the yeomen did not stir in their ranks. It was a sunny day. In a gush of sentimentality, the little shops seemed dear and precious to me, the provision merchant’s and the saddle-maker’s.
Presently I heard a great tumult and shouting, which I now know issued from the Kilcummin rabble who had attached themselves to the advancing soldiers. It grew steadily in volume, but then for a time remained constant, and for this reason: Colonel Sarrizen had halted his force outside the town, where he divided it, sending the lesser half on an encircling movement through the fields, so as to cut off retreat along the Ballina road. Soon enough, however, we heard a noise compounded of shouts, the thudding of feet, and the clatter of hooves, for already the French officers had commandeered horses. Cooper, who could look to the far end of the street, as I could not, gave an order to
his men.
Then, suddenly, a blue-uniformed man, holding a pistol in his right hand, rode down the street at full tilt, as though he intended to charge the yeomen by himself, but his purpose was to see whether soldiers with muskets had been posted in the houses. He stared upwards at the windows to left and right. For a moment we looked each other in the eye. This man, as I was presently to learn, was Bartholemew Teeling, a member of the Society of United Irishmen, but holding a commission as colonel in the French army. He was a tall, graceful man, and his face, even in this moment of excitement, was pale and quiet, almost meditative. Captain Cooper gave the order to fire upon him. Bob Williams, perhaps less dumbfounded than the rest of us, raised his musket to his shoulder, and Teeling, with what seemed the utmost calmness, pointed his pistol and shot him full in the chest. Then he rode off.
Poor Williams lay on the ground, clawing the air and screaming most dreadfully. The men broke ranks and gathered around him, until Cooper, with his sword drawn, ordered them back. But now the French were upon us, running down the street and shouting. The yeomen opened fire, which they did not pause to return. Instead they charged with their bayonets, stabbing and clubbing. The yeomen, poor fellows, held their ground briefly, but then buckled and ran. This retreat, however, brought them headlong against the second French column, so that they were caught between two waves of those seasoned and indifferent butchers. Squeezed between them, the yeomen ran screaming and howling, many of them dropping their weapons, into my courtyard, where they beat upon the door, calling out for succour. They were most horrible screams, and I shall never forget them, like pigs when the blade is pressed against the throat bone.
Thus ended the battle of Killala, a contest, some ten minutes in duration, between sixty yeomen and about two hundred Frenchmen. Derisory accounts have been given of the event, which give no consideration to the fact that civilians, mobilised to keep order in the barony, were pitted against hardened veterans. Of Captain Cooper’s personal bravery, no praise is too high, for he stood his ground, sword drawn and pistol in hand, until overborne by grenadiers. One of these, a man a head taller than Cooper, swung the butt of his musket against Cooper’s skull, and then, as Cooper lay motionless in the street, struck twice more. I was appalled less by the violence of all this than by its swiftness, and the workaday conduct of the French, as though they were herding cattle. When the yeomen, those who had not fallen, were driven into the courtyard, the battle ended.
The bestial mob which followed now came into view, coarse, frieze-clad peasants and fishermen, shouting imprecations in Irish, and shaking their makeshift weapons in a menacing manner. But riding slowly through them, straight down the middle of the street, came the general himself, Humbert, not asking them to move aside, taller even than Teeling, composed and smiling. From a great distance now floated to me the sound of military music, fifes, drums, and bugles. Below me in the street lay one man in blue and more than a dozen in scarlet, motionless or writhing. Muttering a brief but not perfunctory prayer, I hurried downstairs.
On my way, I encountered Eliza, whom I instructed to return to our guests in the kitchen. The hall and the rooms which opened onto it were crowded with yeomen and French soldiers. The yeomen, I could understand, were being herded into the dining room, brusquely yet without cruelty. Several officers, of whom one was the man who had shot poor Williams, were standing together. I was walking towards them when their general entered, as matter-of-factly as though he had strolled into his own house. He commenced a rapid conversation with the officers, and I therefore hung back, standing rather foolishly in the midst of the bustle until at last he noticed me, and beckoned me towards him.
He turned to Colonel Teeling, instructing him to enquire if I was the owner of the house, but I interposed to assure him that I commanded fluent French and identifying myself as the clergyman of the parish. This occasioned some confusion, for the general at first assumed that I was a Roman Catholic priest. He then explained to me, in a most civil manner, that my house would serve as his headquarters, but that my household need feel no concern. For the present, he had many tasks at hand, securing the town and preparing its defences, transporting supplies from Kilcummin, and seeing to the billeting of his men. He trusted, however, that by dinnertime we would find an opportunity to become better acquainted. Until then, I was to rest tranquil in the knowledge that he had landed to aid in the liberation of my country from its English oppressors.
I replied with such dignity as I could muster that I was myself an Englishman, and as for the country, already a dozen of its sons lay dead in the street. He looked at me with some surprise, and then, giving a typically Gallic shrug, turned away.
Bartholemew Teeling then drew me aside, and in low tones informed me that General Humbert, although a man of undoubted virtues both personal and military, had a settled prejudice against the English people, which I would be wise to bear in mind. I was astonished to discover this officer in French uniform speaking excellent English, although with the unpleasant accents of the north of Ireland. When I remarked upon this, he informed me that although he was Humbert’s aide de camp, he was also an officer in the army of the Irish Republic. Was it of interest to him, I boldly enquired, that the first Irishmen he encountered were ranged in battle against him? Not so, he replied, with a dry and faintly sardonic courtesy. The Irish of Kilcummin had greeted him on the strand, and had followed the French into Killala. He then invited me to accompany him into the courtyard.
There all was bedlam. Reinforcements, several times the original numbers, had arrived, and also a great crowd of peasants. A large flag or banner now hung above my hall door, of a dark yet vivid green silk, with a gilt harp at its centre. Above the harp was the inscription ERIN GO BRAGH, beneath it, the words IRISH LEGION. The peasants seemed drunk with excitement, and many of them were dancing, or rather capering, before two of their musicians who were working away lustily at their pipes. French soldiers, leaning on their muskets, surveyed the scene with amusement. The wounded had been carried into the courtyard, and were being attended by French medicals, whose aprons, like those of butchers, were already streaked with blood. Several of the peasants had clapped upon their heads the helmets of fallen yeomen.
“In God’s name, Mr. Teeling,” I cried. “What have you brought down upon us?”
“Liberty,” he replied, in a neutral tone of voice.
“And is this the appearance that liberty takes?” I asked.
He did not reply. He was looking beyond the courtyard to the street, where other peasants were milling about, excited and perhaps confused, as I was.
I cannot recollect my feelings with any exactness, and cannot believe that they would be of interest to the reader. I was overwhelmed by the suddenness of the event and by its unknown proportions, by my sight of men shot down in the streets of my parish, by my fears for the safety of my parishioners and my family. I was distracted by the hubbub, and by the matter-of-fact manner in which my very house had been taken away from me. But beneath the confusion, and stronger even than my fear, lay sadness like a sodden mass in my stomach. The spirited music of the pipers, the capering peasants, the indifferent soldiers, the bloody aprons, were both the causes and the visible emblems of my grief.
Thus began the first week of the Irish Republic, as I have seen it termed in several French accounts of this adventure, or, as it has remained alive in the imagination of the countryside, Bliadhain na bhFranncach, the year of the French.
8
The Moat, Ballina, August 22
A Killala man, riding an unsaddled horse, brought the news to Malcolm Elliott, who was at work in one of his fields. Elliott listened quietly, had the man repeat several portions of his story, and then nodded.
“Go to Michael Geraghty, and tell him that this story must be taken to John Moore at Ballintubber, and then to Swinford and Foxford. John Moore will give him the names of the men who must be told at once.”
“Will the men of Ballina be coming to us at Killala?”
>
“No,” Elliott said. “The Frenchmen will be coming here to us. Tonight perhaps or tomorrow.” He paused, and bit his knuckle sharply. “But I myself will go to Killala now. Tell Michael Geraghty that he is in command until he sees me again. Could you make out how many Frenchmen have come?”
“By God, Mr. Elliott, there must be thousands upon thousands of them. They have not yet all landed. They destroyed the Tyrawley Yeomanry and the streets of Killala are slippery with blood. A Frenchman gave Captain Cooper a stroke with his musket that split open his skull like a bad apple.”
Elliott remembered Cooper leaning towards him across a gaming table, the cannonball head bobbing with laughter.
“Have they cannon with them?” he asked. “Did they bring cannon?”
“They brought a great green banner and hung it up from the Protestant clergyman’s house. And musicians.”
“Yes,” Elliott said.
He rode to his house, dismounted, and calling to his wife walked quickly to his office.
When Judith joined him he had a large ebony pistol case open on his desk. He looked up.
“The French have landed at Killala.”
“Our Killala? Here in Mayo?”
“Our Killala. Seven miles to the north of us.”
Her hand flew to her throat, and she sank down into a chair facing him.
“Why here? Of all the places in Ireland, why here?”
“Well may you ask. They have routed the yeomen there and hold the town.”
“Then they have come in strength?”
“Because they dealt with Sam Cooper and his bundle of Orangemen? The man who brought me the news was a peasant. He had no notion of numbers.”
“What will you do, Malcolm?”
“Do? Why, bring out the United Men. That was to be the signal, the landing of the French.”
The Year of the French Page 24