“We have drifted off the subject,” he said.
“We have,” Browne said. “But not far. The Brownes and the Moores. We go back together a long way. They thought they had us whipped after Aughrim, but we rose again, one in one way, one in another. John’s business is a tricky matter, but we can manage it, I think. There is a gaol in Clonmel that he might find more to his liking than the one in Castlebar. And after a while, a month or so, a gaol in Waterford that he might like even better.” He filled their glasses again. “Waterford is on the coast. A great town for shipping—Hamburg, Barcelona. You have a good head for politics, George. You should discuss your ideas with Cornwallis. He is very open in his dealings with Irishmen. Of the right sort.”
“Then we have made a bargain, I take it.”
“What bargain?” Browne asked, puzzlement in his voice. “I don’t understand you. John is a harum-scarum sort, but he is a good lad. I will help him any way I can. What else are friends for?”
The following evening, Moore stood where once his father had spent his evenings, on the balcony above the portico. His hands rested upon the smooth, cool stone of the parapet. Motionless after rain, the waters of Lough Carra were green beneath the sky. A flight of rooks circled above it, flocks of black. From elsewhere upon the estate, populous as a village, noises floated towards him, the shouts of herdsmen, from the forge the beat of hammer upon iron. In other months, at this time of day, he had heard song lingering in the distance, cadences wedded to soft, moist air. He heard none now. The flames of August had burned away song. Shout and dull hammer-blow merged into the silence.
He had paid a cheap price for a brother’s life. His father would have thought it a fine bargain. Not a shilling to pay out, but only his pledge to serve the interests of England and of Dennis Browne. Never again would he survey the world from his balcony of cool and superior amusement, judging, appraising, condemning. His irony, in which he had taken pride as a function of his intelligence, would become a shell, each year more brittle and more thin, a mannerism, a gesture. John’s reckless folly had bound him hand and foot, delivering him into a world which he had learned to despise. What a simpleton he had been, to believe that he could escape history, whose sources were as close to hand as a brother’s passion, a neighbour’s ambition. History was Dennis Browne at ease in a dining room, glass in hand, and feet stretched out full length, or John unshaven in the stink of Castlebar gaol.
Where had the chain begun, of which his bargain with Dennis Browne was the final link? In some mountainside shebeen, Whiteboys nursing their grievous burden of evictions, their grotesque, invented history. Or in Dublin, solicitors and merchants’ sons, their heads crammed with Tom Paine; city-bred, they thought in pamphlets. Or in Paris, Wolfe Tone, fertile-witted mountebank, doubtless making sweeping, empty gestures, promising an island in turmoil to the Directory, that gang of swindlers and opportunists. Or as a dangerous notion in Humbert’s head, quick island glory with Buonaparte half the world away. Moore’s mind drifted towards possibilities, world stacked upon world, motives, probabilities, pantomime actors gesticulating in the theatre of his imagination. Abstractions beside a green lake. He was at home. Harsh-throated, the rooks settled noisily in the beech trees.
20
FROM AN IMPARTIAL NARRATIVE
OF WHAT PASSED AT KILLALA
IN THE SUMMER OF 1798,
BY ARTHUR VINCENT BROOME
September 23, the final day of the “Republic of Connaught,” as it styled itself, was one of those days which have earned for our barony its cheerless and unenviable reputation, with ocean, coast, and town alike lying grey and dour beneath a blanket of dirty cloud. From dawn and through the early hours of the morning, a rain fell, soft as mist, a rain so soft that it seemed a portion of the air itself. The ancient watchtower atop Steeple Hill served the rebels as sentinel, for men had clambered up its bowels and leaned from its shattered top looking towards the south, perched there like gargoyles. We could see them through the streaky, pallid light, their clothing as colourless as stone and rain. The town dogs, a band of scrawny curs, had been awake with the dawn, snapping and yelping at the bands of men who passed beneath my bedroom window. From what I could make out of the waters of the bay, there was not a sail upon it, as there had not been for several weeks. It was a great bowl of vile water.
Few within my residence had slept that night. The loyalists gathered upon the upper floor were in great fright, comforted as best they could be by my tireless Eliza. I led them several times in prayer, seeking to instill in them a humble confidence in Providence. In those hours, I felt myself drawn closer to them than ever before. All their lives, from the first stories told to them by mothers or nurses or school-fellows, they had been instructed that the Papists were a dark and mutinous race, wedded to violence as though to a witch. Not even so generous and large-minded a man as my dear friend Mr. Falkiner was entirely free of this brooding suspicion, which for many amounted to a mania. It serves no purpose to expostulate against mania, and had I done so I would have been thought demented, for events had assuredly arranged themselves in accordance with loyalist belief and Protestant piety. For there we sat, prisoners within the very house of the Protestant clergyman, which clergyman I was, as shouts and curses floated to us through plank and plaster.
For below us, in the principal rooms, there had all night been ceaseless noise and chatter, voices raised in fierce and unintelligible disputation. Once, at perhaps three or four in the morning, the tread of a number of men fell upon the stairs, and the prospect of a dreadful and immediate fate rushed into our minds, but before our landing had been reached, the feet turned and retreated.
I thrust resolutely from my mind all conjecture as to the nature of these arguments. The rebels awaited a certain retribution, with only its hour in doubt, and desperation and fear guided their councils. Throughout the night reports brought to them by patrols told them of soldiers advancing from all directions, these reports being often in such conflict with one another that reliance could not be placed upon them. Near midnight, O’Donnell sent out his cousin, Roger Maguire, with a dozen horsemen, and within a few hours they had come back to report their encounter with a small detachment of British soldiers. Maguire (he was among those slain later in the morning) was a resolute and intelligent young man, whose word could be relied upon. Terror, mingled with savage and un-Christian rage, now filled the rebels, and it was at this point that a final discussion was held, if that be the proper term, as to the disposition of the loyalist prisoners, and not only the yeomen in the market house, but those unoffending men and women, and their children, who had taken refuge beneath my roof.
My knowledge of their council is not direct, of course, but comes from several rebel sources, and in particular from the dying declaration of “Colonel” Patrick Barrett. This declaration, which I myself watched him make, must be taken cum grano salis, for in the two hours which elapsed between his condemnation and his execution he was eager if not to exculpate, then at least to show himself in a favourable light. Thus he represents himself as a steadfast supporter of O’Donnell’s efforts to maintain a semblance of humanity, and by the same token a resolute foe of O’Kane and of Malachi Duggan, whose quite simple plan it was to slaughter us all before sallying forth into battle. It was for this hideous purpose that feet had come clattering up the stairs, but at the last moment they were called back by O’Donnell’s loaded pistols. It is a wonder to me that O’Donnell’s mind did not crumble before the task of preventing a massacre while at the same time preparing for a hopeless battle. Preparation, it must be remembered, for which he was utterly without experience, so that he blundered constantly, sending out patrols of men upon foolish errands and thus weakening his defences.
For Barrett himself I cannot vouch. Both of his legs had been smashed by cannon, and he lay with other men on the filthy floor of a cabin in the Acres. He made his statement at night, and a subaltern took down his halting English by the light of a guttering candle, with a
half-dozen of us gathered around. He was desperately eager to speak with a minister of his own creed, but Murphy lay dead at Ballinamuck, and Mr. Hussey had fled to a place of safety, lest the misplaced vengeance of the soldiers fall upon him. I offered to pray with him, but he smiled, making no other reply. I am most uncertain as to his true feelings, for he seemed at some points eager to set matters straight in his mind, but at others he was clearly concerned to enlist our sympathy, although he must surely have known that there was no possibility of mercy, for his guilt was beyond question.
He was a well-favoured man in his middle thirties, about O’Donnell’s age, with yellow hair and ruddy face, and a broad, deep chest. He was in great pain which minute by minute contorted his face, and words were dragged out from him.
“He was like a bull gone mad,” he said, speaking of O’Kane, “and he bellowed at Ferdy that the heretics should all be slaughtered, and the more he bellowed the whiter Ferdy’s face would get. They had both been drinking, as the others had.”
“O’Donnell was drunk?” the subaltern asked.
“Not drunk, but he had been drinking. I had a few good drinks myself from O’Donnell’s jug.”
“But there were rebels who wanted to murder the women and the other prisoners,” the subaltern said.
“There were,” Barrett said. “A crowd of them did.”
“And this matter was then discussed.”
“Discussed, is it?” I am not certain that he understood the word. “There would be three or four things happening at once, and men would come in to make reports, and Ferdy and O’Kane would set to arguing. Then there would be an hour when nothing happened at all, and the room was full of men standing around. But most of the time Ferdy was sitting at the big black table.” He meant my mahogany dining table, which still bears scars of the rebel occupation.
The subaltern had stopped writing. “O’Kane is dead,” he said. “So is O’Donnell. So is a man named Maguire who held rank among the rebels. If anyone is left who is answerable for the conduct of the people here, it is yourself. Were you not styled a colonel?”
“Ach,” Barrett said. He endured a spasm of pain. “Devil the meaning those words had. I brought in a hundred men from Crossmolina, so the French clapped a comical hat on my head and called me a colonel. There were majors and captains and colonels. We had a few generals but they went off with the army.”
“We know about the generals,” the subaltern said.
“But everyone knew that Ferdy O’Donnell was the commander here. He was the man that most of us followed, and I was myself his follower. O’Donnell is a great name here.”
“And O’Donnell, you claim, prevented the murder of the people who had taken shelter with Mr. Broome here.”
“I know this to be true,” I said, interrupting them. “Without excusing Mr. O’Donnell’s conduct in the rebellion.”
The subaltern looked towards me impatiently. “So I understand, Mr. Broome.”
“Prevented it?” Barrett said. “By God, he did. I heard him threaten to put a pistol ball into O’Kane. And so he would, by God. He was very excited.”
“And the yeomen,” the subaltern said. “The prisoners in the market house. Did O’Donnell have the same care for their safety?”
Barrett took his time in answering. “The yeomen,” he said. “Well now, they were our prisoners the same as I am yours, and see what is happening to me.”
He turned his eyes away from the subaltern towards me, and then from me to a dark corner of the cabin, beyond the light of the candle.
At the first good light, the watchers in the tower gave a shout which brought a number of rebels swarming up Steeple Hill. These were presently joined by the leaders, including Maguire, O’Donnell, O’Kane, and Barrett. All stood looking across the estuary towards Tyrawley’s Sligo flank. It was certain to me that they were observing a troop movement of some kind, although I could not guess as to its nature. After a time O’Donnell turned and walked back to my house. The other “officers” followed him, but many rebels remained upon Steeple Hill and they were joined by more. They remained there for an hour and from time to time gave vent to shouts of the most terrifying description. O’Donnell, by himself, went out to them a second time, and they shouted now at him, as he stood looking across the estuary. Presently he walked back, but this time he climbed the stairs and rapped at my door.
His face was drawn and as white as parchment, and his eyes leaden and puffy from lack of sleep. “Mr. Broome, there is something which you should see. The people want you to see it, and I believe that they are right.”
I settled my hat and left the room with him, but at the landing Eliza ran after us and flung herself upon me.
“There is no need for concern,” I said, patting her shoulder. “I am going out now with Mr. O’Donnell but I will soon be back.”
“He will indeed, ma’am,” O’Donnell said.
Eliza looked at him uncertainly. Under my tutelage, she had come to give O’Donnell a measure of trust, but he was not a reassuring figure, with his distracted air, and his huge pistols and French sword.
“What is happening?” she asked in a tremulous voice.
“I do not know,” I said truthfully.
“I will have him back with you shortly, ma’am,” O’Donnell said, “and he can tell your friends what is happening. What I am doing is for the best. There are very angry people below, and they are beside themselves in their anger.”
It was not the most tactful of reassurances, but he spoke with but part of his mind, his attention wandering.
The morning air was chill, and the fine rain coated my face where the hat’s broad brim did not protect it. We climbed the narrow footpath up Steeple Hill, with knots of men staring at us, to the very top, beside the tower, and turned eastwards. A man grabbed my arm and shouted something at me in Irish, which of course I did not understand. What I saw was well worthy of their attention.
Stretching as far as the eye could see a line of fires burned fiercely, like beacons set at irregular intervals, and at first I thought they were exactly that. I marvelled that they could burn in the rain, but then saw, from the sky above the blazes, that the rain had not spread into Sligo.
“Is that the army?” I asked. “Are those the campfires of the army?”
O’Donnell turned on me fiercely, as though I had made an insulting jest.
“I do not understand,” I said. “What need have they of fires?”
“What need have they, is it?” he cried. “What need? Are you blind, man? They are troubling themselves to burn every cabin they can find, and God knows what they are inflicting upon the people.”
I knew at once that he was right. The straggling line of fires took pattern and meaning. My ear held the echo of his stilted word, inflicting, which perhaps was used in the prayers of his creed.
The man who had seized my arm shouted at me again.
“He says that this will happen in Killala in a few hours, and worse than that. By God, he is right. Do you doubt that he is right?”
“Thirty,” I said. “There must be at least thirty fires.”
“Small trouble it is,” O’Donnell said, “to set fire to a bit of thatch. There is an army coming upon us from the south and one from the east.” He scrubbed his face with his two fists. “And I declare to God I don’t know what to do. Have you ever heard the like of that, Mr. Broome?” He shook his head. “There is not a ditch for us to hide in but they can scour us out of it.”
“There is but one thing for you to do, Mr. O’Donnell,” I said.
“Surrender, is it?” he pointed to the fires. “Do you think those people were let surrender?”
“You must make the attempt,” I said. “How can you hope to withstand an army?”
He shook his head, turned upon his heel, and made his way down the hill. I followed close behind, although I turned my head once, upon hearing a roar from the men, and following their gaze could see that another cabin had been set afire. There seeme
d a mixture of rage and terror in the air itself, that wet, clinging air which had nothing in it of life or freshness.
“By noon,” Barrett told the subaltern, “the two armies were in plain view, the one coming towards us from Castlebar, and the other from the direction of Sligo. If there was one redcoat, there were ten thousand. And if there was any place for us to run or hide it was the waters of the bay itself.”
“So you have told us,” the subaltern said. His hand was weary from scribbling, and perhaps he saw little purpose in the task to which he had been set. But General Trench required an account of the rebel intentions and actions, to round out his despatch. “And it was O’Donnell’s decision to send out the white flag?”
“It was,” Barrett said. “He sent out Maguire and six horsemen, and he compelled Captain Cooper of the yeomen to accompany them.”
“What were Maguire’s instructions?”
“He was to tell the English soldiers that we wanted to surrender and be let live, and if we did not have that promise, then we would kill all of the yeomen.”
“That was your intention, then? To kill the yeomen?”
Barrett hesitated. “There were some said one thing and some another. Myself, I thought it would be dreadful to cut down men with empty hands.”
“Indeed,” the subaltern said dryly. “And what did O’Donnell think?”
A soldier held a leather flask to his lips.
“Did O’Donnell intend to kill the yeomen?” the subaltern asked.
I bent forward anxiously, for the question had been much upon my mind. The movement caught Barrett’s attention, and it was to me that he spoke.
“We were all of us talking about what Maguire would say to the soldiers, and not what we would do afterwards.”
“But General Trench would not accept their surrender,” I said to the subaltern, as a question. “Is that what happened?”
“How should I know?” the subaltern said testily. “What do I know of such things? What does it matter now? Maguire was shot down and that was the end of the matter.”
The Year of the French Page 66