by M. C. Muir
‘Might I be so bold as to ask what faith you worship? Is it possible you follow the Church of Rome?’
The doctor laughed but his eyes did not smile. ‘Why do the English believe all Irish are Catholics and tar them with the same brush? Do you not know that the United Irish Party was formed by Presbyterians and a wealthy Protestant group who opened their hearts to the other faiths and the disadvantaged, including the rural labouring class? Did you know the plight of the peasant farmers who were mostly Catholics? Most worked small parcels of land of less than a handful of acres – a small patch of earth barely big enough to support one cow or a few sheep and hardly enough dirt to feed a family for a year. Yet, from the pittance that land provided in a good year, those farmers had to pay their tithes to the church as well as rent to wealthy landlords. In bad years, when the crops failed, nothing could save them from starvation.
‘Whatever the status and faith of these rebels, they were united in their aim to free Ireland from the British oppressor. Whichever religion they chose to follow was of little consequence.’
Despite feeling slightly uncomfortable, Oliver listened carefully. He appreciated the doctor’s candour but there was still more he wanted to know about the men standing against him. He continued his interrogation. ‘Do you speak from personal experience?’
‘No,’ Jonathon Whipple replied sharply, ‘I was not living in Ireland at the time, but the stories carried across the Irish Sea were repeated to me many times by close friends. Often their words were recounted so vividly I felt I was present.’
Oliver reflected on where he was at that time – with the Mediterranean fleet, he believed. ‘When serving at sea, news of events happening in Britain is slow to filter through.’
‘It was the twenty-first of June, 1798 to be precise,’ Jonathon Whipple reminded.
‘I recollect reading a brief notice when we returned to harbour. It spoke of a glorious victory over rebel forces.’
‘No doubt it failed to mention the atrocities committed by the loyalists and the human suffering that followed as a result?’
‘As I said, the report was brief, a matter of only a line or two.’
The doctor took a deep breath. ‘Vinegar Hill,’ he said, ‘is in County Wexford, not far from where I was born and raised. It was the last stand of the United Party rebels. Twenty thousand men, women and children – mainly poor Catholic peasants – armed with pitchforks and handmade pikes stood against the British loyalist forces made up of ten thousand men.’
‘Only half the number.’
‘Indeed, but the British had the advantage of trained soldiers armed with muskets with fixed bayonets, and cannon. The Irish did not stand a chance. Even as they retreated, they were bombarded by the infantry’s heavy artillery fire and, when they ran for cover, they were mowed down by the swords and sabres of the British cavalrymen. After the fight, the bodies were left on the ground to rot, while the women who were captured were raped – often by several men. The rebel hospital was torched and the wounded who were unable to escape were burned alive.’
‘Many fights are ugly,’ Oliver admitted and waited a moment. ‘Was that the last of the battles?’
The doctor shook his head. ‘No. Skirmishes continued with cruel atrocities reported from both sides. Throughout the fighting, the United Irishmen were buoyed by the promise of a mighty French force that would arrive by sea and land on the west coast. They were convinced the French troops would defeat the redcoats and the militiamen and help Ireland gain its independence. But it was a vain hope.’
‘I read that a French force landed. Is that not correct?’
‘True. However, the large force that had been promised to help liberate the people never materialised. Only a small number of troops were landed from a handful of French ships and, shortly after the soldiers disembarked, they were captured by Cornwallis’s men.’
‘What followed?’
‘They were shipped back to France.’
Oliver was surprised. ‘And the Irish rebels?’
‘Without the support that had been promised from France and from some of their own regions, they were overcome. Their leader, Wolfe Tone, was captured and sentenced to death but chose to cut his own throat while awaiting execution. Many of the insurrectionists were put to death while eighty of the United Irish Party’s leaders were tried and exiled to America or France. Hundreds of others were sentenced to transportation to New South Wales, the prison colony at the other side of the world.’
Oliver’s thoughts flashed to the political prisoner held aboard the 74. What was his role in this mutiny?
The doctor continued. ‘Though thirty thousand men, women and children died, the conflict merited only a paragraph in the London papers. The articles commended the British soldiers on their success. I doubt anything ever appeared in the Naval Chronicle as there was no British naval action.’
‘Thank you, Jonathon.’
‘The five men who left the ship in Rio,’ the doctor continued. ‘Though I spoke with them very briefly when they first came aboard and I examined them physically, I know little more of them than the names as they appear in the muster book. Mr Parry described them as being like any other lubbers, although better than pressed men in that they were eager to learn shipboard skills. However, they appeared rather secretive and preferred to keep to their own company.’
‘I need to know which side they were aligned to.’
‘You mean were they rebels?’ the doctor asked. ‘Were they members of the United Irishmen’s Alliance? Or were they loyalists or militia of the British forces?’
Oliver nodded.
‘From my brief conversations, I learned they hailed from Wexford, as I do. The sixth man, Michael O’Connor is from Kilkenny. But their demeanour raised some uneasy feelings that have not left me since the men disembarked.’
CHAPTER 17
O’Connor
Returning to the great cabin, Oliver Quintrell was wary of the ramifications of what he had heard. Divided loyalties, lack of discipline and constant murmurings were the harbingers of mutiny. Yet, men of many nationalities served Britain’s most important service and jibes and jokes about the Scots, Welsh and Irish were accepted as normal chitchat in the mess. Yorkshiremen mocked cider-swilling yokels from the south while sailors from Cornwall were forever accused of raising false lights and seducing ships onto the rocks for the purpose of plunder. Deal longshoremen were seen as smugglers while those from the area of London Docks were not to be trusted. It was said they would cut your throat for a pinch of snuff. Aboard any ship, deep-seated hatred and long-standing jealousies, if left to simmer long enough, could eventually boil up into a full-blown mutiny. Similarly, it only took a handful of fiery voices to rekindle old grievances and feed a fire.
Mulling over the words the doctor had spoken, Oliver considered the names of a string of Irish captains who had risen to the rank of Admiral and wondered if their backgrounds had ever been brought into question. If such a man was not pilloried for his heritage, was it his heritage that had elevated him to his position of authority?
A knock on the cabin door interrupted his thoughts.
‘Begging your pardon, Captain,’ Casson said. ‘O’Connor’s here for the work you have for him.’
Oliver glanced at the pile of assorted papers and correspondence on his desk needing attention. ‘Thank you, Casson. Allow him in.’
‘Sorry to disturb you, Captain. I came to collect the inventories for copying.’
Oliver Quintrell looked up. The freckle-faced red-headed Irishman hovered in the doorway. Though he was of similar age to himself, at only a little over five feet tall, he looked more like a boy than a man. Despite only having been aboard for a short time, O’Connor was already a regular visitor to the great cabin where at times he worked under supervision but, more often, undertook his work unattended.
The captain studied his features. If there was any subterfuge or evil intent in this man’s mind, it did not show in his face. �
��Come in,’ he said. ‘I wish to speak with you.’
The Irishman nodded and entered, taking the chair that was indicated to him at the end of the table.
‘For several weeks now, you have been performing whatever assignment I have given you and I have been satisfied with your work. Your hand is neat, you demand little instruction, and I cannot fault your accuracy. However, there have been rumours spread about you that I am obliged to investigate.’
O’Connor did not appear surprised.
The captain offered him the opportunity to respond.
‘I know what you are referring to, Captain. Accusations have been levelled at me in the mess and on deck, especially since the third rate was taken.’
Oliver tilted his head to one side and listened.
‘I have been mocked, jeered and called names, and threatened, not only because of the way I speak and look, but because my name was entered in the muster book at the same time as the five Irishmen who left the ship and have since caused havoc aboard the 74.’
‘I must ask you to reply to those accusations so I can consider how to deal with them and with the rumour mongers?’
‘I will answer your questions honestly. It is the only way I know.’
Oliver expected nothing less. ‘You assured me you did not know the other Irishmen before you left England.’
‘I did not lie when I told you I met them in an ale house only days before the six of us stepped aboard the ship bound for America. You know what happened to that vessel.’
The captain nodded. ‘Continue.’
‘From the first night on board, they were buoyed by eager anticipation and talked about New York and a new life. They told stories about fellow countrymen who had settled there with their families and made a good life. That kind of talk was not new to me. It was the escape many poor Irish folk dreamed of.’
‘And were you of the same mind?’
‘I thought America would offer an opportunity for me to advance myself as there was nothing for me in Liverpool at the time.’
‘You had a job.’
‘But that was all,’ O’Connor said.
Oliver studied the man sitting bolt upright. ‘Tell me about the five men. You must have learned something about them before the ship foundered – their characters, their ambitions, their backgrounds.’
‘It was impossible not to,’ the scribe said, tossing his head back, ‘confined, as we were, in a cramped cabin on the orlop deck. For hours each day, we were pressed shoulder to shoulder and, at night, we slept three to a bench unable to roll over or change position. I could not help but listen to their chatter and overhear their whisperings.’
‘Were they Irish rebels?’
He nodded. ‘Too right, they were. They had fought for an independent Ireland and were proud of that fact.’
‘Fought against British rule?’
‘What else?’ the Irishman said. ‘They killed, maimed and murdered without question or conscience. Each conflict they fought was bloodier than the last and the reprisals were even more horrific. They fought alongside an army of peasants armed with pikes and pitchforks, and when they had no weapons they used their fists, fingers and teeth. You can do a lot of damage to a man’s face with those weapons alone.’
‘Did you fight?’ the captain asked.
‘No, but it was hard not to get caught up in the uprisings.’
The captain asked him to continue.
‘Eight years ago, I worked in Dublin Castle as a clerk for a shipping agent of the Honourable East India Company.’
‘For the East India Company itself?’ Oliver queried.
‘No. The HEIC did not have an office in Dublin. All its business was conducted through a shipping company. It was interesting work as the agent dealt with all manner of people regarding maritime, military and revenue matters. It was also a recruiting office for the Bengal Army. My job, as a writer, was mainly copying correspondence and the postage of letters.
‘One evening, when I left the Castle to go home, I was gathered up by an angry mob thronging the street and, though I tried to escape from the crowd, I was forcibly carried along. We had gone no more than one hundred yards when I was grabbed by a pair of soldiers and dragged from the street and thrown into the back of a cart with several others. In a way, I was lucky. I heard later that the mob was halted at a barricade where a company of armed militiamen was lying in wait for them with loaded muskets. Many died that day.’
‘But you got away?’
‘No. There was no escape. It was already dark and, like the others in the cart, we didn’t know what was to become of us or where we were being taken. I had never felt so much fear. Eventually we arrived at Kilmainham Gaol where we were dragged from the cart and herded into its dungeons. It was dark, dank and cold. The guards issued us with a single candle to serve for light and warmth and said it had to last us for two weeks. The other four men in my cell were dressed in clothes typical of poor country folk, whereas I was wearing the tailored coat and trousers I wore to my desk. The sounds and smells of that place were repugnant and the cries unimaginable. Some of the cells had women and children in them but they received no special treatment.
‘Three weeks passed before I was brought before a judge. Fortunately, having had a few coins in my pocket, I had managed to get word to several reputable friends who visited me. They spoke on my behalf and convinced the judge I was not a rebel. To my relief, the Court pronounced me not guilty and I was allowed to walk free. My fellow prisoners were not so lucky.’
‘Did you return to the Castle?’
‘Only for a short time. One day there was uproar in the courtyard close to where I was working. The bodies of a group of insurgents were brought into the Castle’s yard on a large wagon and dropped in full view of the secretaries’ windows. It was the intention of the authorities to display them as trophies. The poor souls, including some women, were cut and sliced every which way. Their bodies were filthy and blackened with blood and mud. After several hours in the hot sun, one of the mutilated carcases moved. The man was not dead. The soldiers found it amusing. One stood over the man, removed the bayonet from his musket and drove it through the man’s throat. When the other soldiers cheered, he twisted it in an act of bravado. It was a sickening sight. I had to leave. I could not stay any longer.’
Oliver paused before addressing his next question. ‘Are you a British loyalist?’
Michael O’Connor shifted in his seat and looked uncomfortable. ‘I was asked that question almost as many times as I was asked if I was a rebel. My answer was always the same: I am an Irishman and I love Ireland but I hated what was happening to my country. The uprisings divided my people. I saw friends and neighbours torn apart. Loyalties were sworn and broken. Murder, treachery and retribution were commonplace and it was impossible to know who to trust.’ He sighed deeply. ‘I did not take sides, though it was hard not to do so and, in the end, I found it easier to take a ship from Dublin and sail to Bristol. My plan was to sail to America but I had little money, so I travelled north to Liverpool and went to the offices of another agent of the Honourable East India Company and offered them my services. I was lucky. I was given a job as a writer and commenced work the following day.’
‘Was your employer satisfied with your work?
‘Always. I was a good worker.’
‘Then what made you leave?’
‘It was the memory of those ear-piercing screams falling within earshot of the Ministers of Government, knowing full well that the torture was allowed to continue. I could not stay. I was desperate to make a new life for myself in a new country. I am not young and I would like to take a wife and have children who will grow up in a place without fear.’
‘And now’ Oliver said, glancing about him. ‘What of your present situation aboard Perpetual?’
The Irishman shrugged. ‘I find myself in a similar bind to that which I endured in Dublin. I know I am not trusted. On deck, sailors point and talk about me. They call me fou
l names because they saw me come aboard in Ponta Delgada with the five troublemakers and assume that I am of the same mind as them. Even now, I sense undercurrents of hatred and feelings of animosity against men of Irish birth. But I swear I am not like them and I thank you for allowing me to stay on board and for providing me with a purposeful occupation.’
‘And of the sea itself?’ Oliver enquired. ‘How do you regard a life being confined within a ship once again?’
‘I have no complaints. I have my own hammock and I like the sea,’ he said. ‘It provides a feeling of seclusion, and every mile we sail carries me further from the land I escaped from. The sea itself is wild and unpredictable and can claim a man’s soul as quick as a militiaman’s bullet, but that is its nature and I accept it.’
‘But the sea is not devoid of mortal conflict,’ Oliver said. ‘You witnessed that off the Fernando de Noronha Islands where men fought each other tooth and nail like savages, and would have torn each other to shreds given the opportunity.’
O’Connor acknowledged the captain’s comments. ‘Despite that, I see the ship as a place of sanctuary. It’s like a church. Its walls surround me, comfort me and protect me. And, while Perpetual is my home, I will fight with my life to defend it.’
Though the Irishman’s words had satisfied the captain as to his integrity, it had also given him concerns regarding the underlying feeling of discontent aboard his ship. ‘Thank you, Michael. For the present, return to your other duties on deck and ignore the ugly talk. I will put a stop to that.’
Throughout the conversation, Oliver had been engaged, not only with the man’s words but with the lilting tones and accent in which he delivered them. It was only after the door had closed that he recollected hearing the same resonance from Captain Gore of HMS Medusa, the officer from whom he had accepted the cases of Spanish treasure in Gibraltar Bay – the very treasure his present mission was connected with.
He remembered how Captain Gore had shared a meal aboard Perpetual with him and his officers and had impressed everyone with his cordiality –particularly the young midshipmen. For over an hour he had delighted them with stories of his exploits, of successful missions and others of misadventure. Every element of that evening was fixed in Oliver’s head and he remembered how the captain had told him that he had been born in Kilkenny in Ireland. The ring in his voice was the same as O’Connor’s.