The Year of the French

by Thomas Flanagan

  “Until the first light.”

  “It is almost the first light now,” someone said.

  But there was no light in the cabin save for the weak light from the candle.

  “I will be with you,” I promised Barrett.

  “I would give much for a priest,” Barrett said. “It is a black, dirty soul I will be bringing to judgement.”

  “You must pray,” I said.

  “ ‘Where there is true repentance.’ Ours is a merciful God.”

  Suddenly Barrett smiled at me. “It was a queer kind of confession,” he said. “To a Protestant clergyman and an English officer. It will have to do.”

  “All right, then,” the subaltern said. “We will give you some time to yourself.” He stood up, and his body obscured the candle’s flame.

  “I will be with you,” I promised him again. “At the end. You will not be alone.”

  Barrett did not reply.

  Outside the cabin, the subaltern and I stood together in darkness through which the first light had begun to creep.

  “I am sorry the poor devil could not have his priest,” he said. “They believe that their priests have powers to forgive sins, do they not?”

  “Something like that,” I said. “ ‘Where there is true repentance.’ ”

  “Is this the truth, do you think?” he asked.

  “Part of the truth,” I said. “Part of it is true.”

  “Is this what he would have told his priest?”

  “I do not know,” I said.

  21

  Weymouth, England, Late September

  The King was taking the waters at Weymouth, which he had been visiting regularly since 1789. Two days earlier, the officers of the frigate Argus had presented him with pikes taken up from the bog of Ballinamuck. His Majesty held one of them, marvelling at its crudity, a length of ash and then, hammered crudely out at some Mayo forge, the flat spear with the short, deadly hook curving outwards from its base. Savages on the African coast must carry such weapons as these. His Majesty shook his head, and consigned the pikes to his collection of curios.

  The King was strolling on the esplanade when the messenger brought him the despatch from Nelson, having covered the hundred and thirty miles in seventeen hours. London already knew. The news had come yesterday, and the bells of Saint Paul’s pealed, then those of a second church, and a third, until the whole of the city was clanging. That night the city was illuminated, and the guns at the Tower fired salute after salute. His Majesty read the despatch twice, once almost hysterically, after seeing the first three words, and then a second time, more slowly. To the astonishment of the crowd on the esplanade, he began to cry. Great tears rolled down his cheeks and his heavy body shook. They thought that he had been brought the news of a disaster. Then, almost as astonishingly, he began to read aloud to them, his voice, at once coarse and soft, carrying a thin, nervous edge of relief.

  “Admiral Lord Nelson begs leave to report to His Majesty and to their Lordships of the Admiralty that the French Fleet in the Mediterranean has been destroyed at Aboukir Bay at the mouth of the Nile. General Buonaparte’s army is now cut off in Egypt, without hope of reinforcement. The Mediterranean is now a British sea and shall remain so. The destruction of the French Fleet was achieved without loss of British ships.”

  “It is a most wonderful and miraculous victory, Your Majesty,” Lord Stanley said. “Within a single month, rebellion defeated in Ireland and the enemy in Egypt. The two ends of the world.”

  But the King scarcely heard him. Holding the rolled despatch in his hands, he walked the length of the esplanade. Unimaginative and untravelled, his mind shuffled vague landscapes, green plains, the sandy desert, deep blue waters. British infantry, at the run, stormed enemy positions, a blur of scarlet. Officers led them forward, pointing towards the foe with drawn swords. On still waters, beneath the blue and white sky of a coloured engraving, British ships pummelled the enemy, black cannon protruding from the gunports, puffballs of white smoke. The British ensign floated, defying logic, in a windless sky. Grandson and great-grandson of German princelings, his heart expanded in patriotic fervour. Providence had come once again to the side of England, not rushing, but with measured step, across moorland, desert waste, the broad expanse of ocean. Truly a people blessed by Heaven.

  That evening His Majesty attended the theatre, which displayed an illumination, hastily contrived. Britannia Treading Anarchy and Rebellion under Her Feet. Aboukir. The King pronounced the unfamiliar word, mouthing its syllables with pleasure. Britannia, her breasts swelling with triumphant indignation, held down rebellion with firm, sandal-clad feet. Anarchy crouched beside them, looking fearfully towards her. It was a vigorous scene, and the King applauded it heartily. He tried to remember the name of the Irish county where the French had landed. It had all ended well.

  Dublin, Late September

  Humbert and his officers were lodged in the Mail Coach Hotel, south of the Liffey in Dawson Street. It had become a fashionable district some decades before, when the Marquis of Kildare built his great town mansion. “Where I go,” he told his critics, “the rest will follow.” And follow they did, peers, Members of Parliament, solicitors, bankers, merchants. Their houses faced leafy squares and gardens, or else faced each other across wide, dusty streets. A pleasant, easy society, conscious of its modernity, dwelling in buildings without a past, without history, undarkened by the shadows which hung north of the Liffey, a Dublin which remembered footpads and ruffians, sedan chairs, torchlight falling upon narrow alleys. Here the city was spruce and new, bricks and stonework fresh. Wind from the mountains drew off the pungent smoke of turf fires, sudden showers cleansed the streets. From Stephen’s Green to College Green was a pleasant walk, ten minutes or so, nods for acquaintances, chat with a friend, and, at the foot of Grafton Street, Trinity College and the Houses of Parliament facing each other, far from rebellions and the bogs of Mayo. An equestrian statue of King William commanded College Green, Protestant emblem for a Protestant city. Turn right, stroll down Nassau Street beside the railings of Trinity, turn right again, and you are in Dawson Street.

  In these weeks, many Dubliners took the stroll, in the hope of catching a glimpse of the French officers, who were often to be seen at the windows. Fontaine, in particular, was gallant by nature, and would occasionally blow a kiss to a young lady or to a pair of young ladies walking with arms linked, peering shyly towards the window from under lowered lids. They would hurry past, then pause at the Anne Street corner, and each would describe what she had seen. The French officers were a great success with the Dubliners, who now felt, all danger past, that theirs had been a most romantic adventure. They had expected to see desperate, hardened Jacobins, but these fellows, despite their hard-worn uniforms, were more like dandies. It became the fashion for British officers to visit them, and hear at first hand an account of their plans and exploits, and the more astute could detect the tension between Sarrizen and Fontaine. None could miss the contempt and detestation with which they spoke of their Irish allies.

  Humbert himself, however, did not receive visitors. He had taken, by preference, a large room in the rear of the hotel, on the first floor, and he remained behind its closed door. The one exception which he made was for Cornwallis, who visited him late on a September morning.

  Cornwallis was in uniform, scarlet against the pale Dublin sky as he climbed down from his coach. Leaning on a stick, he walked slowly up the steps, with a few dozen citizens watching. When they recognised him they set up a cheer, which, turning briefly, he acknowledged with a wave. “ ‘Cornwallis, he’s our darling, he saved us from the foe,” someone shouted, quoting a street ballad. Cornwallis, his back turned, grunted and stumped into the hotel.

  Humbert stood up to receive him. He had been sitting behind a small dining table, with a bottle of brandy in front of him. His uniform was rumpled, and there was a glaze of dark beard on his cheeks.

  Cornwallis waved his hand. “Sit down, General. Sit dow
n.” He sat down himself, but first drew up a third chair. With great care, gently, he rested his left foot on it. “Gout,” he said. “A damned painful disease. Like a hundred small daggers sticking into you.” He spoke idiomatic French, but with a wretched accent.

  “In my country,” Humbert said, “it is called the aristocrat’s illness.”

  “It isn’t true. I knew a footman with gout once. Perhaps he’d been eating too well. That will do it, that and wine.”

  “We are in your debt,” Humbert said stiffly, “for the courtesy which has been shown to us.”

  “Not at all, my dear fellow. You will be home soon. Your passage is being arranged. By way of Hamburg.” He folded his hands across his belly and smiled. “You must be very eager to see Paris again,”

  “Very eager,” Humbert said drily.

  “By God, sir, your government will have no cause to fault you. A brilliant campaign, sir, if I may say so.”

  “My government prefers victories to brilliant campaigns.”

  “All governments do,” Cornwallis said. “All governments. We are in the business of winning battles, we generals. And if we drop one—I speak from experience, as you must know. You failed here, on this wretched island. But as for me, I lost an entire continent. There’s carelessness for you. What the devil, you could not possibly have succeeded. Not in a thousand years. You were outmanned and outgunned, with no allies save those poor wretched peasants. You did splendidly at Castlebar, but after that you were in a cleft stick. You couldn’t stay and you couldn’t move.”

  “If the second fleet had arrived while I was in control of Castlebar . . .”

  “If,” Cornwallis repeated, and shrugged in sympathy. “It has now arrived. I thought I should drop by and tell you. A ship of the line, eight frigates, a schooner. Warren intercepted them off the Donegal coast.”

  Humbert sat quietly. “What ship of the line? Do you know?”

  “The Hoche. She put up a good fight. Didn’t strike her colours for four hours. That fellow Wolfe Tone was aboard her. He is coming down to Dublin. In chains.”

  “So. It began with Hoche and it ends with his name. Hoche and Tone. What a pair!”

  “Mr. Tone claims the rights and privileges of an adjutant-general in the French army.”

  “So he is. And Bartholemew Teeling is a colonel in the French army. He should be with me here, and not in some prison awaiting trial. I have written strong words to you on that subject.”

  “It won’t do, old fellow. Mr. Tone and Mr. Teeling are subjects of the British Crown and they have committed treason. They will hang for it.”

  “That is unjust,” Humbert said. “As a soldier you must feel its injustice. Teeling was the bravest of my officers. A chivalrous man. He protected the persons and the property of your loyalists.”

  “I am sorry,” Cornwallis said. “I cannot judge this matter as a soldier. Treason is a most damnable offence. Especially when it is unsuccessful.”

  It was Humbert’s turn to smile. He studied Cornwallis through halfopened eyes, a large, sleepy cat. “Perhaps,” he said. “I have made my protest. I will miss Colonel Teeling.”

  “And Tone?”

  “Teeling is a most serious man, a formidable man. I could never understand Tone, with his jokes and snatches of song. Hoche adored him.”

  “A damned nuisance,” Cornwallis said. “A traitor and a nuisance. I have been told that General Buonaparte mistrusted him.”

  The cat turned its dark head away from Cornwallis and looked towards the window. “So I have heard.”

  “Now there is a remarkable man,” Cornwallis said. “Your General Buonaparte. He is in desperate straits now, is he not? Stranded off there in Egypt with his army. He could have made his mark in the world. That Italian campaign, eh? The fortunes of war. They make us or mar us.”

  “He is a most remarkable soldier,” Humbert said.

  “You must know him well,” Cornwallis said.

  “Not well,” Humbert said. “Not well enough to discuss him with a British general.”

  “Your point is taken,” Cornwallis said. “But I must confess that I am curious to know about him. Who is not?”

  “You will know about him soon enough,” Humbert said. “I think we all will know about him.”

  “There is little left to know,” Cornwallis said. “He will rot out there in Egypt. Ah, but that Italian campaign! He made his mark. Great energy you French fellows have! Buonaparte invades Egypt, you invade Ireland. An ambitious people, spreading the gospel of the Revolution to left and to right, as you might say.”

  “We intend to defend the Revolution, if that is what you mean to say. We defended it against the monarchs of Europe and we will defend it against the British Empire. We shall not let ourselves be strangled.”

  “Is that the way of it?” Cornwallis asked. “Well now. But from the first I have had a different notion. Only a notion, mind you.” He leaned forward. “It has occurred to me that the liberation of Ireland was not your true goal, General Humbert. It has occurred to me that you wished to return to Paris as a victorious general, while Buonaparte was safely away in Egypt.”

  Humbert’s eyes flew open. “For what possible purpose?”

  “Why, to defend your revolution, of course. Not against the British Empire, but against General Buonaparte.”

  Humbert smiled, but the dark, heavy eyes remained wide and watchful. “You British develop peculiar notions indeed about other peoples. France is a nation, General, a great nation. It is not a gang of—of bandits.”

  “Of Corsican bandits, you were about to say. I may be entirely mistaken. No doubt I am. In the event, it does not matter, does it? The two of you have been shipwrecked, poor fellows. Yourself and Buonaparte.”

  “You have—you must excuse me for saying this—you have too much self-satisfaction, you British. We will manage our affairs, we French, and we will defend ourselves against you. You are welcome to Ireland. It is a most unhealthy country.”

  “You have found it so,” Cornwallis said. “But the Irish people are charming, are they not?”

  “They are a rabble,” Humbert said, with sudden ferocity. “They are the most backward race in Europe.”

  Cornwallis nodded. “Best leave them to us. Damned if I know what we would do without them. It is like having an invalid wife or an idiot daughter.” He lifted his gouty leg to the floor and stood up. “Perhaps we will have another opportunity to talk before you leave.”

  “That would be pleasant,” Humbert said, and added, with faint sarcasm, “it is interesting to exchange confidences in this manner.”

  At the door, Cornwallis paused. “I have received a letter from the clergyman at Killala. A man named Broome.”

  Humbert smiled broadly. “I shall not forget Mr. Broome. A good little man. A bit foolish, perhaps, but good-hearted.”

  “Yes, he would appear so. He is concerned about the behaviour of our troops there—my own people, you understand. And he praises the young fellow whom you left in command of the rebels. Name of O’Donnell. Do you remember him?”

  Humbert thought and then shook his head. “I should. If I placed him in command I should remember him. There were so many of them. We gave them muskets and they wasted the balls firing at crows.”

  “It doesn’t matter. He was killed in the fighting. Broome seems to have taken quite a fancy to him, but Trench calls him a murderous ruffian.”

  “Trench is probably right,” Humbert said. “Most of them were ruffians.”

  Cornwallis’s coach, with its escort, rattled down Dawson Street and Nassau Street, then into College Green and down Dame Street to the Castle. In Dame Street, handsome and well proportioned, soldiers and merchants paused to stare at it, peered inside for a glimpse of the Viceroy. Near Cork Hill, a group of urchins set up a cheer. Cornwallis leaned forward and raised his hand. A ballad singer leaned against the red brick of the theatre. A coat reached to his ankles; beneath a slouch hat, black hair hung lank.

  “In t
he County of Longford one September morn, Lake roused himself early and blew on his horn. The rebels they scattered, the French had a fright, And the Crown was triumphant before it was night.”

  He held a broadsheet to passersby. The balls of his eyes were turned inwards. A month ago, that fellow would have been singing “The French Are on the Sea.” By God, if they intend to turn Lake into a hero, they have their work cut out for them. Now Humbert! Give that fellow a proper army and God help us all. He will never get one. Perhaps, with luck, some minor command in the provinces or the West Indies. That other fellow, off in Egypt, was a different matter. He wants to contrive his own fate, that fellow does. One of the new men. The world turned upside down.

  The coach swung into the lower Castle Yard, clattered across cobbles.

  That night, for the first time since Paris, Humbert got drunk. Sitting by himself in the dark room, he finished the bottle of brandy and sent for another. Even Cornwallis, the fat, indolent English aristo, knew what had happened. He “had a notion.” Paris had been lost in the bog of Ballinamuck. All his boasts and promises had sunk there, and now he would be shipped home, courtesy of the enemy, a defeated general. A ridiculous defeat, blundering across Ireland in the company of savage pikemen. Tone had led him on with his glib, lying talk of an island ripe for revolution. Eyes closed, he saw Tone again, dandified in his French uniform, long hook of sabre nose, soft feminine mouth, striding up and down the room, gesticulating as he talked, jokes and passion, shrill cockatoo voice. Playactor. He lit the candle and poured another glass.

  More pleasant to think of the night march upon Castlebar, along the dark lake, peasants dragging cannon like beasts of burden, strawlight from distant cabins guided them forward. The tactics of the Vendée, Quiberon, sudden, unexpected. If the second fleet had come in time. He waited a week for them. What had held them at Brest? Intrigue, bungling, bad weather? It did not matter. All the skill in the world was useless without luck. Once he had had them both. Dealer in rabbit skins flung upwards by revolution. Ci-devant gentlemen obeyed him, Sarrizen, Fontaine; resentful, supercilious, they obeyed him. Now his luck had run out. “I make my own luck.” Buonaparte’s boast. No longer, perhaps. Night on the hill of Cloone. In the churchyard, by morning light, he saw the English spread out, the net pulled tight. Someday, perhaps, peasants would point out the hill to their grandchildren. The French camped here. All night their fires burned. Among the gravestones. Meaningless.