Young Bloods

by Simon Scarrow

  Arthur rose from his seat and made his way down the narrow aisle between the seats and the wall. O’Farrell surrendered the spot in front of the audience and resumed his seat by Henry Grattan. Rapidly collecting his thoughts, Arthur stared at the faces watching him. There was some hostility there, but most seemed surprised by his intervention and now waited attentively to see what the young man had to offer.

  ‘I wish to say, before anything else, that my respect for our guest is every bit as great as the respect of every man here present. Indeed, since I first had the opportunity of following the parliamentary exploits of Mr Grattan I have been inspired by his example. So much so that I stand before you now as a candidate, aspiring to serve the fine people of Trim every bit as successfully, and respectfully, as Mr Grattan serves the electors in his own borough.’

  Arthur saw some of the audience nod approvingly and felt inside his heart the warm glow of contentment at the opening to his performance. He paused a moment to milk the effect, and then continued.

  ‘I am sure that Mr Grattan will continue to perform his duties with his proven diligence, and that he will continue to work for the improvement of the people with every minute of life that the Almighty is prepared to bless him with.’

  Arthur was rewarded with more nods of approval.

  ‘A man with the political stature of Henry Grattan must be in great demand by those he already represents. How could it be otherwise, given the talents he has been blessed with? Therein lies the great tragedy for the members of this corporation . . .’

  The nodding ceased and several faces now wore looks of discomfort or frowns.

  ‘If we are not to hinder Henry Grattan in the continued pursuit of his duties we must not burden him with the Freedom of the corporation. Every meeting that Mr Grattan would be obliged to attend here in Trim would take him away from his obligations to other men. Gentlemen, is it right for us to be so selfish in demanding so much of the great man’s time? Why, who else would be capable of peddling the second-hand radicalism that is the stock in trade of Mr Grattan? Who are we to deny Ireland this man’s labours? But then . . .’ Arthur changed his expression to one of thunderstruck realisation. ‘Perhaps that is precisely why we should grant Mr Grattan the Freedom of Trim! Why, gentlemen, we could tie him down with such onerous civil duties that he would no longer be free to burden the rest of Ireland with his dangerous revolutionary sentiments. I am sure that Mr Grattan would not thank us for such an enormous addition to his labours.’

  Most of the audience were smiling now; a handful of others were still struggling with the overly rich vein of irony that Arthur was starting to unveil for them.

  ‘So, it is in respect for Mr Grattan’s wider audience, and his revolutionary masters in France, that I would like members to consider the offer of this honour to Mr Grattan. I would ask you all to reflect on the consequences of what you decide today. Are we to reward those who would tear down the great traditions of our nation? Think on it with utmost care and caution.’

  Arthur let his words sink in for a moment before continuing, on a lighter note. ‘Leaving all that aside, as far as I can discern from Mr O’Farrell’s proposal, the only good reason why Mr Grattan should be given the Freedom of the corporation is . . . his alleged respectability. Now, I’m sure you perceive the inevitable difficulty of awarding such an honour purely on the grounds of respectability.’ Arthur gestured towards the audience. ‘I’m sure that every man here is blessed with respectability. And outside this room, how many more in Trim are respectable men? Why stop there? Since we have invited Mr Grattan, and his Dublin lawyer friend - both respectable men, I am sure - to Trim, why not extend the invitation to all respectable men in Ireland? Why, soon we would have a whole nation of Freemen of Trim!’

  Most of the audience laughed out loud, and amid their good-humoured roars Arthur heard applause. Despite himself, he smiled back at the members of the corporation. He indulged them for a moment and then raised his hands for silence, before the mayor could reach for his gavel.

  ‘Gentlemen! Gentlemen, please! I think we all now understand why we must, unfortunately, deny this proposal. It would not be fair on Mr Grattan, and it would not be fair on all the other respectable people who deserve the honour every bit as much as Mr Grattan. For that reason I feel compelled to object to awarding him the Freedom of Trim . . . no matter how great my respect for Mr Grattan.’

  As the air filled with more laughter Arthur bowed his head graciously and returned to his seat. The mayor reached for his gavel and banged it down violently, several times, until order was restored and the room was quiet again.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Wesley. Now we move to a vote. Those in favour of the proposal, please show . . .’

  Across the room, arms lifted into the air. Arthur glanced round but found that he did not dare count them. He turned back to the mayor and watched as the man tallied the votes, conferred with the colleagues seated each side of him, and noted the total on a sheet of paper in front of him.

  ‘Those against . . .’

  Arthur raised his hand and looked round the room as more arms rose up. The mayor started counting, agreed the total and then coughed loudly before he pronounced the result.

  ‘For the proposal, thirty-three. Against, forty-seven!’

  The supporters around Arthur stood up and cheered and he felt someone shake his shoulder in congratulation. He rose with a smile and shook hands with several men in the crowd that had formed round him. At the front of the hall Henry Grattan had risen from his seat and was marching down the aisle towards Arthur, with O’Farrell dogging his footsteps. At his approach, the members around Arthur drew back expectantly. Grattan strode up to him, his expression struggling to contain the anger and embarrassment he felt at his defeat. He glared at Arthur for a moment before he thrust out his hand.

  ‘Congratulations, young Wesley.You have the makings of a fine politician.’

  Arthur smiled.‘Men have been challenged to a duel for milder insults, sir.’

  ‘True.’ Grattan forced himself to smile back. ‘So it’s just as well for you that you will not win the election here in Trim.’

  ‘I wouldn’t place too much money on Mr O’Farrell winning the election if I were you, sir.’

  Grattan stared at him for a moment longer, then abruptly turned away and strode out of the room.

  The seeing-off of Henry Grattan resulted in an immediate rise in Arthur’s support amongst the electorate of Trim, and in the last weeks before polling day Arthur spent all his time touring the borough and speaking to crowds lured out by the promise of roast meats, cheap claret and barrels of ale. Such public meetings often dissolved into drunken riots as rival supporters fought it out on the village streets and country lanes of the borough. Connor O’Farrell continued to play to the voters’ liberal sentiments but while the poorest people took some comfort from the example of the French radicals, they did not qualify for a vote and so Arthur reaped the anxiety that was growing in the minds of those with property who feared the lurid stories of mob violence on the streets of Paris.

  The polls opened on the last day of April and by the time the poll closed it was clear from the voter tallies that Arthur had won and was duly presented to the public as the freely elected member of parliament for the borough of Trim.

  As he travelled back to Dublin, Arthur stretched out across the seats of the coach and luxuriated in the sweet taste of success. At last he had done something that his family might be proud of. Better still, his new status as a member of parliament might well go some way towards impressing a more important audience that had been preying on his thoughts for some time now. He resolved to write to Kitty Pakenham as soon as he arrived back in Dublin.

  Chapter 56

  ‘Of course, you’ll be sitting with us on the Tory benches,’ Charles Fitzroy motioned towards the seating closest to the Speaker’s chair. Arthur mumbled his assent but he was looking upwards, his gaze fixed by the cupola curving over his head far above. Fitzroy n
oted the look and smiled.

  ‘Impressive, isn’t it? When the debates start to get tedious, I often find myself stretching back and staring up there. Makes a man forget his surroundings for a moment, which is always a good thing.’

  Arthur smiled. He had been in the building before, sometimes to watch his brother William speaking, sometimes because the nature of the debate took his interest. But now he was there as a member, not a guest, and Arthur felt the thrill of exclusivity that all new members of parliament experience.

  ‘As one of the new boys,’ Fitzroy continued, ‘you’ll find the rules are simple. Keep quiet, unless you’re cheering one of our side on, or shouting down the opposition.’ He paused and looked at Arthur. ‘I’m afraid that doesn’t happen as often as you might think. Most of the debates would do good service in purgatory. I sometimes wonder if that’s the true origin of our party’s sobriquet.’

  Arthur laughed politely. Fitzroy’s son, Richard, had been a contemporary of Arthur’s at Angers and he had met Fitzroy on only a few occasions in recent years. So Arthur was pleased when the MP’s invitation to introduce him to the parliament had arrived at his lodgings. Charles Fitzroy was a tall thin man in his late fifties. He was gracious, in word and action, and had sat for the borough of Kinkelly for over thirty years. His taste in clothes was refined, if dated, but somehow the powdered wig suited him and the overall effect very much reminded Arthur of Marcel de Pignerolle. He felt a twinge of anxiety at the thought of the director of the academy at Angers. If the revolution in France was determined to tear down every last bastion of the nobility, then the unrepentant de Pignerolle would perish with the system he so admired. Arthur’s heart felt heavy with dread at such a prospect and it showed in the pained expression that briefly crossed his face.

  ‘Are you all right, young Wesley?’ Fitzroy took his arm gently.

  ‘Yes, I’m fine. Just thinking about something else.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘It’s nothing. I was just reminded of my time in France. Someone I knew.’

  ‘Ah, France.’ Fitzroy shook his head. ‘A sad business, this crude egalitarianism they are so intent on establishing. No good will come of it, you can be sure of that. If God had intended us to live in a democracy he would have made us all aristocrats or peasants. And where would be the fun in that?’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘And the wretched thing about it is that some of our own people are becoming infected by their notions.’

  Arthur nodded. ‘I know. I had the pleasure of Mr Grattan’s company while I was campaigning in Trim.’

  ‘Oh, don’t you worry about Henry Grattan.’ Fitzroy waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. ‘He talks about reform, but he has a patriotic heart. And he’s wealthy enough to imagine the personal sacrifices implied by a more egalitarian society. He won’t cause us any real problems as long as he is fed a diet of petty reforms to dangle before his followers.’ Fitzroy smiled cynically. ‘Bread and circuses, dear boy. Well, in this instance, potatoes and poteen. As long as they’re fed and drunk there’ll be no threat to our class.’

  ‘I’m not so sure,’Arthur replied after a moment’s reflection.‘All it takes is a few inspired men and anything can happen. God help us if the Irish ever find a Mirabeau or a Bailly to speak for them.’

  ‘That presumes a degree of similarity in sophistication between the French and the Irish, which simply doesn’t exist.The Irish were born to serve, Wesley. It’s in their blood. Revolution simply wouldn’t occur to them.’

  Arthur shrugged. ‘I hope you are right.’

  ‘Of course I am, my boy.’ Fitzroy slapped him on the back. ‘Now come and meet some of my friends.’

  Arthur soon discovered that being on the back benches of the Tory faction was a frustrating experience. As Fitzroy had said, the duties of a new member of parliament were limited to voting along party lines and spending the rest of the time waiting for a chance to join the chorus of cheering or jeering, as the situation required. There were proposals for further measures of Catholic and Presbyterian relief, budget presentations, arguments over taxation and tax exemption, and all the time the spectre of the revolution in France became a touchstone for those resisting change, as well as serving as a rallying point for reformers.

  It soon became difficult to combine his parliamentary duties with those of an officer on the staff at Dublin Castle. Arthur took his role seriously, unlike a number of members of parliament, who hardly ever attended a debate and could only be persuaded to vote by an offer of a bribe, usually in the form of a sinecure or pension at the public expense. And while Arthur enjoyed the political manoeuvring of the Tories and Whigs he found the endless corruption and dishonesty profoundly depressing at times. There was some relief to be found in the social life at the castle. Particularly now that Kitty Pakenham was old enough to take a regular position in the crowd of youngsters who filled out the ballrooms, the dining salons and the endless succession of summer picnics.

  After their first meeting Arthur had been dismayed when, so soon afterwards, Kitty had returned to her home in Castlepollard. But just before Christmas, Kitty and her brother Tom moved into the family’s house in Rutland Square in Dublin, and Kitty soon became something of a fixture at the court in Dublin Castle, to Arthur’s secret delight. His pleasure was tempered by the attention paid to Kitty by many of the other young gentlemen who quickly fell under her charm and competed vigorously for her attention. For some months Arthur found it difficult to penetrate her cordon of admirers in order to have a private conversation. A few snatched sentences were all that was possible before some beau, or chirpy young female acquaintance, intervened to request a dance, or to direct the conversation towards more frivolous territory. At such moments Arthur would seethe inside and put on an expression of polite interest while he endured proceedings, all the time praying that the witless interloper in question would disappear, or have some kind of horribly debilitating fit. But they never did and on each occasion Arthur found himself stewing in frustration, only to have to return to his lodgings afterwards in a miserable mood of self-recrimination for not having the nerve to be more forthright in his attempts to win Kitty’s affection. If things continued as they were, he chided himself, then before long someone with a more confident approach would steal her away before she ever became aware of Arthur’s feelings towards her.

  Meanwhile he was tantalised every time their eyes met across a crowded dance floor or along a dining table, and she seemed to smile with some kind of special significance that made him certain that she regarded him as more than just a face in the crowd. At such moments he felt his heart soar with hope . . . before it came crashing down again as Kitty turned her gaze on another young man and engaged him in close conversation.Then Arthur would watch in growing frustration at each smile or laugh that was elicited from her.

  When he was out of her company he attempted to rationalise his feelings. She was, after all, just a girl, three years younger than him. There were plenty of other desirable young ladies at court and many more years in which to secure one of them for a wife. His feelings for Kitty were a passing obsession, he told himself, all too understandable in someone of his age. But whenever he saw her, all the logic that could be brought to bear on the situation simply melted away as his passion flared into being once more. He was being foolish and, worse still, he ran the risk of making himself look foolish in front of his peers if his feelings for Kitty became known.Yet if he did nothing to let her know how he felt, then how could she begin to reciprocate his affection - assuming she even wanted to?

  Chapter 57

  Corsica, 1789

  When Napoleon landed in Ajaccio late in September he was astonished to find the island almost as he had left it over a year earlier, before the momentous events that had followed the summoning of the Estates General by King Louis. Among the sailors and townspeople on the harbour quay were soldiers from the garrison, still wearing the white cockade of the Bourbons in their hats when the rest of the
French Army had adopted the red and blue cockade of Paris. As he walked up the streets to the family house Napoleon stared about his surroundings curiously. There were no posters on street corners proclaiming the latest news from the National Assembly, no impassioned debates outside the cafés and drinking holes of the town, no sense that the world was rapidly changing and that the vestiges of an old regime were being swept aside to clear the way for the new France.

  Entering the house, he found his mother upstairs in the laundry room, standing by the window as she pulled the cord that stretched the dripping clothes along the line that hung across the courtyard at the back of the house. She turned and saw him. Napoleon set his hat down on a stool and went to embrace her.

  ‘When you wrote to say the army had taken you back, I feared I wouldn’t be seeing you for years.’ She stroked his cheek. ‘How long will you stay this time, Naboleone?’

  He smiled. ‘I really don’t know. It could be many more months.’

  ‘Good.That’s good. Giuseppe came home from Italy last week. He’s down at the court watching a trial today. He’s missed you. So have I. I’ll have you all together under one roof. Just as well, the way things are going.’ She looked at him sharply. ‘So what exactly is happening in Paris?’

  ‘You must have heard the news, Mother. The whole world must have heard the news by now.’

  ‘It’s different here.You have the royalists saying that the King is biding his time, waiting for the chance to seize back his power. Then there’s those hothead radicals at the Jacobin Club telling us that the old order is gone and we live in a democracy. And there’s Paoli’s followers claiming that the chaos in France is the best chance we’ll have to win independence for Corsica.’ She shrugged. ‘But most people don’t really care. Life goes on.’