The Year of the French (43 page)

August 30
. There was this day a most dreadful scene, when the residence of Mr. Lawrence was invaded by the mob and stripped of its furnishings before the appalled eyes of Mrs. Lawrence and her daughters. It is true that Mr. Lawrence is a fierce loyalist, now serving with the Crown forces, and most bigoted in his religious attitudes, but it is true also that he has ever been a kind landlord in a country which has lacked for these. O spirit of Finn, spirit of Ossian, spirit of Cuchulain, would you have left Mount Lawrence Hall with a tall clock strapped to your back? Yet the spirit of Ossian does live, erect and dauntless, riding now somewhere to the east.

September 2
. But when I read over the lines which I have last written here, candour whispers in my ear that it is a different Malcolm whom I best remember, less heroic and more human, and my heart goes out to him. For I last saw him a week ago, after the liberation of Ballina and upon the very day when the patriot army set out upon their now celebrated march upon Castlebar. He rode up to The Moat at noon, and stayed with me until about four in the afternoon, and those brief hours I shall always hold precious in my memory, whatever the future may hold in store for us both.

I had expected, in what doubtless he would have termed in fondness my “romantic fancy,” that he would be splendidly uniformed, but instead he wore the plain but decent jacket and breeches in which he had set out to meet the French at Killala, although he had now a pistol buckled about his waist. We kissed with much affection and passion, as always we do when we have been separated for some days, but when he drew away from me, I saw at once that his face was drawn, and that his affection was clouded by a faint reserve. I hurried him to the dining room, and placed before him a plate of gammon and a full tankard of ale, to both of which he addressed himself heartily. I sat facing him across the table, my elbows resting upon it, and my chin in my cupped hands, and at last I said, “What is it like?”

“What is what like?” he asked, not looking up from his plate.

“A battle,” I said. “There has been a battle,” I said, “the first battle, and our own Ballina has been liberated. What is it like?”

His mouth was filled with gammon, and he swallowed this, and washed it down with ale before he answered. Then he put down his knife and fork, and smiled at me.

“It is like a faction fight,” he said, “if I am to judge by Ballina.”

“I have never seen a faction fight,” I said. But I had heard of them, of course. Who that has lived in Ireland has not?

“The lads from two villages or two townlands will meet together at an appointed time,” he said to me, like a schoolmaster giving a lesson to a novice, his voice dry and precise. “Who can give the cause for it, a quarrel ten years old or a generation old or perhaps no cause at all. And when the signal is given, they will set at each other with cudgels or blackthorns or rocks or whatever comes most readily to hand. You seldom know which side will win. The lads with the stoutest cudgels and the hardest pates, no doubt. Afterwards, there is always much drinking, the two lots drinking together like old friends. The ones that are able to stand, that is. A battle seems to be a bit like that, but instead of cudgels, there are pikes and muskets and bayonets. And of course the two sides don’t drink together when it is over.”

There has always been this side to Malcolm, which I attribute to his Irishness, for they delight in self-mockery, and self-deprecation, yet there was also now a bitterness to his words which carried the ring of truth.

“There is a difference now,” I said. “These lads know why they are fighting. They are fighting for liberty.”

“Yes,” he said. “For liberty. The French general explained that to them with great eloquence. In French, of course, but Teeling and I translated it for them. It made a great impression on them. There is no word in Irish for ‘republic,’ but we did the best we could.” He picked up his tankard and drank off what remained of the ale. “He is a very able man, this Frenchman, so far as I can judge. His name is Humbert, and he carries a reputation with him from the Vendée. We are moving upon the English army at Castlebar tonight, and if we smash them, we will hold Mayo and most of Connaught. After that, it will be up to the rest of the country, and to reinforcements from France. As you can see, my dear, I have become most learned in such matters. Quite the soldier.”

He stood up and carried his tankard to the sideboard, where he refilled it from the pitcher.

“You will smash them,” I said, with quiet confidence. “The people are rising up. As you said they would.”

“Yes,” he said. “They are coming by every hour to our encampment. Peasants from Nephin and Ballycastle and Crossmolina. And something is waiting for them at Castlebar which they have never seen, nor heard about save in poems. The British army. ‘The soldiers of the English King,’ it is called in the poems. English regulars and Irish militia, infantry regiments and cavalry and dragoons and artillery. Castlebar will not be a faction fight. I don’t know what it will be like. Perhaps I shall have an opportunity to describe it to you.”

The quietness of his words struck sudden fear into my heart, and yet I know now that it was needless fear, for all the world now knows of our brilliant victory at Castlebar, in which Malcolm, it is certain, played his part with resolute gallantry.

He turned towards me suddenly, spilling ale in the swiftness of his movement. “You will be alone here at The Moat,” he said, “save for the cook and the maids and a few lads too young to fight. I want you to remember very carefully what I told you when I left for Killala. We are leaving a garrison here in Ballina under the command of a man named Michael Geraghty. If The Moat is offered a disturbance by either side—by either side, do you understand me?—you are to send off a lad to Geraghty with word of that. Tell Geraghty that you need help and that you need it at once. He will send it to you.”

“By either side?” I repeated. “I am not certain that I understand you.”

“There is a gentleman named Malachi Duggan,” he said. “A patriot, rather, I should say—”

“I do not know Mr. Duggan,” I said.

“That is your good fortune,” he said. “Mr. Duggan is not a reader of Tom Paine or William Godwin. You would not hit it off well together.” He broke off suddenly, put the tankard on the sideboard, and walked to me. He put his two hands in mine, and raised me to my feet. Then he drew his hand gently down my cheek. His fingers brushed my lips. “I am sorry for those words, my dear. I am edgy. What you must remember is that this is not a war, but an insurrection, and those are messy affairs. It isn’t always easy to sort out friend and foe. You will be safe enough here, but remember about Geraghty.”

Then he bent down and kissed me, and I forgot all about Geraghty and Humbert and Duggan and the British army at Castlebar and the men from Nephin and Ballycastle. And so too, I believe, did he, for we held each other in a tight embrace, and nothing existed in The Moat or in Mayo or in Ireland, save the two of us.

We retired then to our room, where we have known so much happiness, both passionate and tranquil, though it is most indelicate of me to set down such words upon paper. But I was careful to awaken him at three in the afternoon, as he had cautioned me to do, although I did so with reluctance, for his face was quiet and at rest, and the lines which had creased them at noon were smoothed away by sleep. I touched my hand to his forehead, and his eyes opened at once, and a moment later he sat bolt upright. He remembered then the place of safety which we shared, and turning towards me he smiled. Leaning towards him, I kissed him, and he returned the kiss, softly, without passion but with much affection, and he touched my hair gently.

“We have come a far distance,” he said, “from your father’s house in London, and the books we read there together.”

“And talked,” I said. “There were times when we talked all of the evening away.” And blushed, most foolishly for a married woman in bed with her husband.

“And talked,” he said, with his hand still stroking my hair.

“The books are here with us,” I said. “In your study. All our favourite books. I will read in them every evening while you are gone. It will be less lonely. It will be as though you had not gone.”

“Yes,” he said. “Almost.” Then he smiled again, as often he does, as though my words give him a secret pleasure, the nature of which he never reveals to me.

At four, he led his horse down the avenue, and I walked beside him. At the gate, he mounted, and rode off to rejoin our patriots. But when he was a short distance along the road, he turned and waved to me. I was not to see him again for many weeks, and then under very different circumstances.

FROM
THE MEMOIR OF EVENTS
,
WRITTEN BY MALCOLM ELLIOTT
 IN OCTOBER, 1798

We had hard going the next day, with slashing rain turning the road to mud. At Tobercurry we were warned to avoid Collooney, a loyal town, and were cautioned that Sligo town was held by a strong garrison, with patrols upon the roads. We were able, with care, to move eastwards between Sligo and Lough Gill, and then northwards by a narrow coastal road to the village of Rosses Point, five miles from Sligo. Here an acquaintance of MacCarthy’s, a verse writer named O’Hart, keeps a tavern, and through him we sent a message to Sam MacTier, the man whom I had come to meet. Poor MacTier, as everyone now knows, was on the Sligo executive of the Society of United Irishmen. It now seems to me most curious that two different free masonries, of poetry and of politics, should have brought the four of us together for a few hours.

MacTier did not arrive until late evening, and MacCarthy, O’Hart, and I sat together through a long, wet afternoon. The tavern lies close to the strand, facing Sligo Bay, at a place called Memory Harbour. The bay was but dimly visible through the rain, leaden grey and angry in appearance. Rain fell in sheets upon the thatch, and ran from it in loud rivulets. There were no other patrons, and we spent the time chiefly at a low table by the fireplace, with jugs of hot punch. MacCarthy and O’Hart had at first but little to say to each other, as is often the case when men meet who share the same trade. O’Hart had I think some faint suspicion of our errand and disapproved of it. His wife, red of face and barefoot, brought in a large bowl of boiled potatoes which we ate in peasant fashion, placing the skins in a mound on the table, and dipping the peeled potatoes in a small dish of salt.

MacCarthy was on edge, and had been since we crossed the Owenmore by the crooked bridge at Ballysadare. Twice, despite the rain, he left the tavern and walked to the small jetty, a blanket wrapped around him. When he returned, his blanket was soaked, and his thick red hair plastered to his skull. And for a full half hour he would stand by the window, his long, thick-knuckled hands wrapped around a tumbler.

It was after eight when MacTier joined us, a blunt, stocky man of middle years, with a head the shape of a hazelnut. We had met a half-dozen times before, in Dublin and Belfast. The MacTiers were County Antrim Presbyterians; I did not know what circumstances had brought him to Sligo, where he had become a linen merchant. It is said that flax is the blood of the northerners, growing it, hackling, bleaching, weaving, trading. When it is harvest time, its sweet, heavy odour fills the Ulster air. There was a commendable gravity in MacTier’s manner, and a neatness to his costume. When he put aside his sodden greatcoat, you could not have guessed at the filthy weather he had been riding through, dark brown coat and waistcoat close-buttoned, clean linen with bits of plain lace at the sleeves. But the blunt-toed boots were caked with yellowy mud.

“This is a bad business,” he said, glancing towards the window, but in a voice which suggested a different reference. He nodded to MacCarthy and held out his hand. His eyes were suspicious.

O’Hart served us fresh jugs, steaming and aromatic, and then left the room, closing the door carefully and pointedly. MacTier held his tumbler beneath his nose for a few moments, and then took a long, healthy sip. MacCarthy relaxed slightly, but his large eyes remained watchful.

No French ships had been sighted along the coast from Sligo to Bundoran, or from the shores of Donegal Bay. But the steep coastline of Donegal stretched northwards from Killybegs, a mountainous coast indented by innumerable small bays, curving across the edge of the island, and dropping down by Lough Swilly to Londonderry. A fleet might well be riding at storm anchor off Donegal, unable to put its men ashore, as had happened when Hoche and Tone came to Bantry Bay in 1796.

“More Protestant wind and rain,” MacCarthy said, giving MacTier a thin, taunting smile.

But MacTier ignored him. The Ulster rising was dead, he was certain of this. It died when Monroe’s pikemen were cut to pieces in the town of Ballinahinch. There were still rebels in the glens of Antrim, but they were being hunted out and destroyed. Many of the towns up and down the Ards peninsula had been burned by the British, and scores of farms and cabins.

“Teeling’s home is in the Ards,” I said.

“It was.”

“What if Humbert can bring our Mayo army into Ulster?”

“Into Ulster? Are you daft, man? Past Sligo and Ballyshannon, with General Taylor waiting for you in Enniskillen?”

“Lake was waiting for us in Castlebar,” MacCarthy said. “But he left.”

“Aye,” MacTier said. “I know.” He took out a pair of square-framed spectacles and settled them on his stump of a nose.

“But what if we do get through?” I asked him. “What help could we get from your fellows in the glens?”

“Ach. If you could make your way into Ulster, you would do best to bide in the Donegal hills, deep in the Derryveaghs. It would take weeks to find you, and you could wait there for the French ships.”

“Too long have we waited for the ships from Spain,” MacCarthy said suddenly.

“From Spain?” MacTier asked, puzzled.

“A line of poetry,” MacCarthy said, with the same taunting smile.

MacTier studied him moodily, and then turned back to me. “That is my suggestion. But my other thought would be to make for the midlands. There has been talk about a rising there, and a certain man we both know has been to Belfast.”