Citizen Dwyer E-Book

Sean McCarthy

• Herausgeber: New Island
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 523

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2011

Beschreibung

The story of Michael Dwyer - the Wicklow Chief - a revolutionary idealist, an inspirational guerrilla leader, and a violent alcoholic. From his humble beginnings as a Wicklow farmer, the story of Dwyer's life takes him from Ireland to Australia, from poverty to wealth, and from incarceration to freedom - from everybody but himself. This gripping and moving account of Dwyer's life will stay with you long after you have turned the final page.

Leseprobe

CITIZEN DWYER

Sean McCarthy

CITIZEN DWYER

First published 2011 byNew Island2 BrooksideDundrum RoadDublin 14www.newisland.ie

Copyright © Sean McCarthy, 2011

The author has asserted his moral rights.

ISBN 978-1-84840-138-9

All rights reserved. The material in this publication is protected by copyright law. Except as may be permitted by law, no part of the material may be reproduced (including by storage in a retrieval system) or transmitted in any form or by any means; adapted; rented or lent without the written permission of the copyright owner.

British Library Cataloguing Data. A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

New Island received financial assistance from

The Arts Council (An Comhairle Ealaíon), Dublin, Ireland

For my beloved wifeAnnmarie Cotter

Acknowledgements

Thanks are due to all the fine historians who have written on the events that inspired this fiction, and to the many curators and archivists who gave of their time and knowledge, but in particular I thank Rebecca Edmunds and Caleb Williams of the Police and Justice Museum in Sydney.

Thank you to Morgan O’Sullivan and the Wicklow Film Commission who were with me at the start of this journey. I thank Neil Donnelly for the intelligence and passion he brought to our many discussions, Dermot Bolger for his advice and direction, and Mary Stanley for reading the manuscript and offering insightful comment.

Many thanks are due to Dr Justin Corfield for being a thorough and sympathetic editor. Finally, I thank Edwin Higel and all at New Island.

PART 1

Of the Tree of liberty

What have you got in your hand?

A green bough.

Where did it first grow?

In America.

Where did it bud?

In France.

Where are you going to plant it? In the Crown of Great Britain.

- From the Oath of the United Irishmen

Chapter IMichael Dwyer speaks from out the darkness, and tells us how he wooed Mary Doyle of Donard

The twelfth day, as always, belonged to the women. The men did their chores. We were not adept at it, but pretended to be less able than we truly were. I did the milking, my father fed the hens, my brother John prepared the meal for breakfast, Peter swept the floor, but James put his foot down when my sister Etty asked him to wash a petticoat.

‘You should do it, Jimmy. That’s breaking the rule‚’ my sister Catherine said and Mary agreed with her.

‘’Tis not a rule,’ my mother told them, ‘only a tradition.’

‘I’d say the rain will hold off,’ my father declaimed as he came in. He was a man who didn’t say much but every utterance was grave. Not that he didn’t have a sense of humour, but the jokes were delivered with such seriousness that you’d miss them if you didn’t know him. Dry is what you’d call the manner and dry is what the man was: skin like leather and tight as a drum. Didn’t have much in the way of height and brawn, but I’ve met very few in the world as strong as him.

‘We’ll chance going west to Donard so?’ I asked.

‘Erra why not,’ said he.

‘Hurrah for cousins!’ said young Mary Dwyer, who thrived in company, and the other two girls laughed and clapped along with her. All three of my sisters had freckles, which they hated, and black hair, which they loved. They felt it was unfair to be afflicted with freckles which properly belonged on foxy girls.

‘You’ll lose them in time,’ my mother told them, ‘I lost mine.’

‘Then ye’ll get even bigger ones,’ said their father tapping one of his liver spots.

The stirabout that John made for breakfast was excellent. So good in fact that mother suggested he should make it every morning. You see that’s what comes of not making a hames of your tasks at Women’s Christmas. The day was cold and so we closed the door. Mind you we could still see out from the table or the hearth through the little round spy window by the door.

Our two-roomed house in Eadstown was stone-built, made with blocks of Wicklow granite, some dressed some rough. The thatch was of oaten straw and the rafters on which it rested of blackened oak. ’Twas a more substantial house than many lived in and the small farm sustained us. I was the eldest and would be twenty-six in the year that had just begun. The lease of our land was secure thanks to Thomas Addis Emmet, who was one of the leaders of the United Irish Men, an organisation of which I myself was a fully committed member.

Peter, who had been assigned clearing and washing up while I went to draw water, wanted to leave the tasks until we returned from Donard, so that we might get there and back in light. The women would not hear of it. Mother was concerned about securing the house while we were away, but my father said that locks and bolts would not keep them away if they wanted to attack the place and ransack it, and if they burned it to the ground itself, we’d just have to be thankful that we weren’t in the place.

We made it to Donard in time for Mass and the little church was full. The men had to stand at the back but the women found seats. The priest talked about the three wise men from the east and the gifts they brought to Bethlehem. How it all started with a star in the sky and an infant in a manger.

Some say it is like a bolt of lightning. Now, it wasn’t exactly that for me. Oh, I was struck all right but in a gentler way. It was like looking and knowing that I need look no further. She met my look as she walked from her seat, and she held it with something close to brazenness. Dark, dark skin and the bluest of blue eyes. Head and shoulders were covered with a shawl. Everything else dissolved from my vision: the great V of the timber roof, the stone-carved stations on the walls, the marble altar and the golden tabernacle itself. Oh, I knew; in my heart of hearts I knew. And audaciously, I believed, so did she.

I hurried out after her, trying to remain polite and not push people aside in the house of God. Thankfully, when I got outside she was there with her father, a big man made bigger by his tri-cornered hat and vast winter cloak, her mother, who had her back to me, and her teenage brother Kevin, who like so many youngsters had made approaches about wanting to join the organisation. They were talking to neighbours. All the talk outside the chapel concerned an unfortunate family in the parish of Donard who had been burned out of their house the day before because of their United sympathies. Thankfully they were unhurt and hopefully they had recognised some of the aggressors who would be brought to justice in time.

‘Do you know them?’ I asked my father pointing to the little group.

‘The Doyles? I’ve met them yes.’

‘Can you introduce me?’

‘They’d have no time for the like of us.’

‘Give it a try anyway.’

‘Why, so?’

‘I believe I’ve had an epiphany on the Epiphany.’

‘This might not be the action of a wise man,’ said my father as he walked towards the Doyles.

‘Mister Doyle!’ said he.

Doyle wheeled round and looked down at my father.

‘Yes?’ he kind of barked.

‘John Dwyer, from beyond in Eadstown. We met in Ashford I believe.’

‘Oh?’

‘Terrible business over your way yesterday.’

The wife tut-tutted and blessed herself.

‘What an outrage!’ said she who had taken my heart.

‘We do not discuss such matters,’ said Mister Doyle.

‘And it should not go unpunished,’ said his daughter, looking directly at me.

She knows me, I thought, she knows who I am.

Mister Doyle pushed his daughter and wife ahead of him as he hurried away.

‘Now there’s a man with little respect for Women’s Christmas,’ said my father.

I heard Kevin Doyle say: ‘do you know who that is?’ as they moved on.

Donard is near the western end of the Glen of Imaal, where the land gets ever richer and greener as it starts to spread out towards the plains of Kildare. The farms were not any bigger than back to the east, but they were productive. So, there was a bit more fur and finery on display outside this church than there would be at our own. Children ran wild, free from the constraints of sitting still for Mass. There were buggies and traps and horses and carts and asses impatient to get moving again in the cold. It all looked and sounded like a normal gathering outside any church after Mass, but in truth the people had to make an effort to keep up the appearance of normality. The talk was about the burning the day before; if you talked too passionately about it you might draw attention to yourself, but to say nothing on the subject could arouse even greater suspicion. Though there were many United men at that gathering, we had to take care to seem neither too friendly, nor to appear too unnaturally distant from each other. You never whispered in another man’s ear, and that in itself was odd where young men were gathered in proximity to young women.

I liked a drink back then as much as the next man, if not more, but I was abstemious on that 6th of January. Now, there were two reasons for this: I was so elated I did not need a drink, and many Epiphanies in the past had been ruined by us men overindulging on the visit to the cousins and then being unable to complete the tasks that awaited us when we got back home.

The return journey was mostly silent. Twilight was beginning to close in and travelling too late in the day could be dangerous. Although the light was fading the countryside still sparkled. It was freezing and the grass glistened. There was glitter too on the granite of the walls between the fields and on the sides of the larger houses. Nearer to Donard there were fine long houses constructed of dressed stone and with sturdy, hipped roofs. But as we travelled east towards the mountains we saw a greater number of cabins and hovels. The thatches were scraggy and sodden, and some had sod walls at the gable, constructed out of layers of sods with marl and mortar in between.

Indeed we were thankful for the little we had.

Soon enough I’d have to leave the house in Eadstown and be ‘out’ for God alone knows how long. So what was I doing entertaining thoughts of romance in my head? What had I to offer a woman? Nothing more than a dream. No, not just a dream! Was it not a reality in France and America? Not a dream then, an ambition. Of course the house would be mine in time, if I wanted it, as I was the first born. But my parents had many good years in them yet. In time my sisters should find good matches, but that would not be easy because materially they had little or nothing to bring to a marriage. Few prospects other than soldiering existed for my brothers and, as they would not want to join the army of our oppressor, they’d have to travel to Europe and link up with one of the Irish regiments there.

All that would change. Now Christmas was over, and the new year of 1798 had begun, I hoped everything would change.

For now, my brother Peter remarked that there would be no need for me to cook supper when we got home because my goose was cooked already.

I was not entirely surprised when Kevin Doyle came to visit me. He found me in the field which was the farthest from the house. There was a wall there I was mending; a stone wall of course. Some folk call them dry stone walls, but here in west Wicklow you’d seldom get fine weather for long enough to keep the stones dry. One of the beasts, panicking for some reason it would seem, took a run at it. But as I started the work I suspected mischief because some of the stones had been scattered quite far. No point in conjecturing about the cause of it, I just had to get on and mend it. The boulders at the bottom were still in place but most of the other stones had fallen and the gap was about a yard wide.

‘Mending a wall, I see,’ Kevin said as he approached.

‘God bless your eyesight and intelligence, young man,’ I told him.

‘Can I give you some help?’

‘I doubt it.’

Straight away he started going round picking up stones and heaping them into the gap.

‘Will ya stop!’

‘What?

‘Every stone has its place, lad.’

‘Oh!’

‘’Course ‘tis all hedges and fences where you are.’

‘You have to find each exact stone for each exact place?’

‘Not as precise as that, no. General rule is that the height should be the same as the width of the base and the top should be half the base width.’

‘Oh, I see,’ he said, but I don’t think he saw at all.

‘So, what brings you over this way?’

He was a gangly kind of a lad, but the face was rosy-cheeked and young. Could have been as young as fourteen, because he was definitely not a shaver, but given his height he’d try and pass for seventeen. Had the blue eyes right enough and perfectly curved dark eyelashes.

‘Ah, ya know,’ he answered.

‘No I don’t. But if it is to ask to be sworn in to some organisation, of which you think I am a member, then you are wasting your time.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Oh you are being mysterious now.’

He stared at me for a while, not giving much away, a few stones in each hand.

‘You can put that one there,’ said I, pointing to a stone and then a gap. We found another space for another of his stones and, to be fair, he wasn’t long getting the hang of it. He was a grand young fella and you couldn’t but be fond of him. I asked him about his family and in particular his father’s politics. The man was, as I thought, a royalist to the core.

‘You see, straight away, you have a problem there!’

‘But I do not agree with him. And the sins of the father... ’

I stopped him with a wave of my hand. ‘This is not to do with morality, or justice, or what is right or wrong. It is about security, Kevin, and that is all.’

‘I’ll leave home. There’s younger than me fighting in armies.’

‘I doubt it. Young man, this is an argument that is going nowhere.’

‘My sister disagrees with him too.’

‘Go ’way?’

I had to tread very carefully now, letting the head rule the heart, if at all possible. We worked in silence for a while, gathering the stones and fitting them in. He’d stop and look at the base from time to time and tried to measure each layer according to the rules I had told him.

‘I thought you’d be interested in that,’ he told me.

‘Did you, now?’

‘And she thought you might be interested too.’

I must have blushed because the boy laughed.

‘I have another sister, Roisin. She’s just a little one. But Mary, that’d be my older sister, will be taking her to her aunt’s on Friday. At a certain time, she will be walking a certain path by a certain stream. I think she thought you might want to know that.’

‘Did she now? And which time, which path and which stream did she have in mind?’

‘Hmm,’ he purred, enjoying himself far too much. ‘And then will you have me sworn in?’

‘I’ll have you booted all the way from here to Donard!’

He laughed heartily, but then revealed the time and the place.

I was champing at the bit right enough, raring to go, but then so was almost every able-bodied man in the country. We were waiting for the signal. Two years ago it should have happened but it didn’t. A French fleet approached Bantry Bay, was tossed about in the waves for a while and then returned to France. They would be back. But now the leaders were not prepared to wait and this year we would rise, French or no French. You’d have to say that it was not the most appropriate time to be starting out on the romance of my life.

My good comrade Sam MacAllister laughed when I told him my predicament. Why does everyone find love funny? Sam was a gentle giant from the Country Antrim. Silent as many tall men seem to be, he could say more by raising one bushy eyebrow and looking down at you than many could with a lengthy speech. Or he’d run his bony hand down his craggy face, grip your shoulder and sigh. That is exactly what he did when his laughter subsided. This comforted me, but it did not solve my problem.

‘Let you court away to your heart’s content Michael. Make no promises mind, and be careful what you say about our business.’

‘You think you need to remind me of that, Sam?’

‘I do.’

That’s the northern manner for you. No humming and hawing with apologies like you’d get in Wicklow, where we’d say anything except what we mean.

One spluttering candle lit the corner of the shebeen wherein we sat, and we were surrounded by whispering shadows. Sam was a Presbyterian and a steady drinker. He did it like a man, proud of his capacity, but never allowing himself to stagger or slur his words.

‘Were you ever in love yourself, Sam?’

‘There is only one woman in my life.’

‘Your mother?’

‘Now you have it.’

Sam was an only child. His father had died a young man, and his mother had to toil to feed him, clothe him and get him an education. She had some connections with our county and had moved south with Sam when he deserted from the Antrim Militia. He took the United oath and we were glad to have him. With the eye of an eagle, and some might say unkindly the beak of one as well, he could hit anything with a musket. I believe it was Sam’s accuracy that would soon earn us the title ‘Holt’s sharpshooters’, because he was as good a teacher as he was a marksman.

‘I don’t want to lose her.’

‘Understood! But she’ll have to wait.’

‘Won’t we all. What am I talking about? I haven’t even met her yet. The family are ferocious royalists.’

‘Tread carefully then.’

‘Don’t I always?’

Sam gave me one of his ‘who-are-you-fooling’ looks and I laughed.

I was never much of a one for reading. Oh, I had been taught and could manage what was necessary, but I never had the patience for it. Sam would not tolerate this. He had brought me the pamphlets of Mister Tom Paine on The Rights of Man, and he’d ask me when we met what I thought of this section or that section. So, I had no choice but to read them. And I tell you now I am mighty glad I did. Tom Paine was an honorary member of the United Irishmen and had lodged in Paris with our leader Lord Edward Fitzgerald. If I wasn’t fired up for the cause before I read them, I surely was when I put them down.

So, there I was, zealous for revolution and zealous for love.

The day was cold, but dry, thank God. I was there a long time before the appointed hour. I leant against an old ash tree and watched the stream babble by, clear, clean and cold. I was tempted to take a drink from it, but resisted, thinking leaning against a tree a more dignified posture than crouching over a stream. I heard the voices of Kevin and the young girl I guessed was Roisin before I saw them. Roisin scampered into view first, but stopped when she saw me.

‘It is all right,’ Kevin told her as she skipped along. Always skipped, never walked. Her hair was a much lighter and more golden colour than her brother’s or sister’s, and curly. When she skipped, and it was a high skip, indeed more of a hop than a skip, her curls bounced from side to side. She has a niece now at the other side of the world, who hops and skips and bounces her curls in exactly the same way, but she is black as night and just as beautiful. Roisin curtsied when she came to me and I bowed as gracefully as I could.

Mary Doyle walked slowly towards me. She wore a long, hooded cloak, dark green in colour. Kevin stood between us.

‘I believe you have met my sister Mister Dwyer!’ he said.

‘Not formally,’ I replied.

‘Michael Dwyer, Mary Doyle,’ said the lad with a flourish.

‘Delighted,’ I said.

‘Charmed,’ she replied.

An awkward pause ensued. She broke the silence. ‘What brings you to this path Mister Dwyer?’

I wasn’t expecting that.

‘I... eh... wished to look at the trees. To assess the suitability of some of the branches for making... ’

‘Pikes?’ she asked.

‘Hurleys.’

‘And have you consulted with the owner of the trees?’

‘They have an owner?’

‘Why, His Lordship of course.’

‘He owns the trees?’

‘And the path we walk on and the stream that flows by.’

‘And the rain that falls from the sky?’

‘When it lands on his property, of course. But you would dispute that?’

‘I do not hold with hereditary titles.’

‘They are a fact of life. From God, some say. Once you have one you cannot relinquish it.’

‘Lord Edward Fitzgerald repudiated his.’

‘A lot of good his repudiation did if you still call him Lord Edward Fitzgerald.’

We laughed, and walked along, now more at ease.

‘Is it right to tamper with the order of things?’ she asked. ‘God in his heaven, the King on his throne, the Lord in the Manor, the Bishop in his Palace, the Priest at the Altar? That is what my father has taught me. Is he wrong?’

‘You will decide that with your own intelligence. You have no lack in that faculty.’

‘Into what dangers would you lead me Mister Dwyer?’

‘I hope none from which I cannot protect you.’

Her hands I saw only briefly during the walk, and I could not make out anything she wore beneath the cloak. Perhaps a waist-length jacket in a lighter green. As we strolled I talked and talked: about self-evident truths and inalienable rights, about liberty, democracy, freedom and equality. On and on! And she loved it: the words, the sound, the passion, and yes, the meaning too.

When it came time to part I had to explain that my first commitment was to the movement, and the defence of our people. Since martial law had been introduced a campaign of terror had been carried out in Wicklow, with half-hanging, pitch-capping, free quartering and plain murder being everyday events.

‘For now,’ I told her, ‘we need to be patient. Keep our powder dry, so to speak. Defend whom we can when we can. But... ’

I paused here but Kevin, who had been carried away by all this talk, interjected: ‘You are waiting for the signal, and when it comes the whole place will go up.’

‘Look to your brother,’ I said. ‘Such talk could have him up before a court martial.’

‘You must do what you think is right, Mister Dwyer, but I do hope that we shall be able to meet again,’ she told me, a little quaver in her voice.

‘We will.’

I waved to Roisin, who smiled and waved back. I strode home elated, but like a walking boil that needed to burst.

‘She’ll have a mind of her own,’ my mother said as we sat round the hearth.

‘Don’t they all?’ my father mumbled.

My mother displayed great concentration on the threading of a needle, but we knew she was searching for a smart remark in reply to my father. She found it: ‘Ah sure now, somebody has to do the thinking.’

My mother chuckled at that one for a while. God love her, she had hardly an intact tooth left in her head, and that made her look her older than she was. Her skin was remarkably smooth, considering the years of toil she had put in, and she was energetic. Always busy, I could not imagine her at rest, doing nothing.

‘Something serious must be afoot to have those two running here!’ my father said, looking out the spy window.

Sam MacAllister was at the door and he was followed by Hugh Vesty Byrne. Hugh Vesty was big bull of a man whose heart was twice the size of his brain. Fearless in battle, he would take on any enterprise as long as it didn’t involve dogs, of which he had an irrational fear.

He stood in the kitchen, puffing, hands on his knees.

‘We are undone Michael,’ he gasped. ‘A raid on the house of Oliver Bond in Dublin; most of the leaders have been taken.’

‘Edward Fitzgerald?’ I asked.

‘He escaped,’ Hugh Vesty told me.

Then Sam said: ‘They have put a price of one thousand pounds on his head!’

I think we all gasped at the enormity of the sum.

‘He won’t last a wet day in Dublin with that on his head,’ my father said.

I had already started to collect a few necessary items during this and my mother was filling me a bag of meal. Now I was unlikely to sleep in my own bed again until God’s knows when, but I was determined not to have any emotional farewells. So I rolled what I needed in a cloth, picked up my blunderbuss and led the lads out the door with me bundle on me shoulder and the blunderbuss held aloft. Where would I be without it?

‘You’re a blunderbuss yourself!’ said Sam.

‘Hey, watch it now Sam.’

‘Erra watch ye’r arse!’

That was Sam MacAllister all out, asking for the impossible and damning the plain and simple. Mind you he had a point. For the blunderbuss was me and I was the blunderbuss.

Wicklow rebels were meant to march on Dublin and join the United Men, who had come out there, to secure the Capital and hold it until the French arrived. But the work of the spies had probably spoiled that plan now.

‘Any Catholic in Wicklow will be fair game now,’ said Hugh Vesty.

‘They want to make this religious,’ said Sam. ‘Divide the country along religious lines.’

‘Oldest trick in the book!’ I told him.

‘Ironic when you think about it though,’ he continued. ‘There’s you Catholics, and me a Presbyterian, and General Joe Holt, who will lead us, a member of the Established Church of Ireland.’

‘I tell ye boy,’ said Hugh Vesty, ‘them French rebels knew what to do about the church. There was hardly a bishop or an abbot left with a head on his shoulders in all of France.’

‘And rightly so!’ asserted my Northern friend.

‘None the less Sam there are priests joining our ranks now,’ I told him.

‘Well, there shouldn’t be.’

‘But it is only out of concern for what is happening to their people.’

‘Now Michael, a true United Irishman must sacrifice his religion to his politics, and no priest will do that!’

‘Ah, the ordinary priests I’m talking about Sam, who rolled up their sleeves and stood by the people through thick and thin!’

‘They will lead us right into the trap that the enemy have set for us!’

He stopped and looked at me as he said this, but I made no reply because I was concerned that Sam and myself had started to nibble on the bait that the English had set out for us. We marched on in silence for a while, Hugh Vesty trudging behind. Sam had been shot in the hip following his desertion from the Antrim Militia and he walked with a limp. So that we might proceed in as soldierly a fashion as possible I marched in step with him, but when we had put a few perches behind us I noticed myself walking with a limp also. I had to ease myself out of this gait as quickly as possible because if my companion copped it, one of us might not have reached our prearranged destination.

Once we got there (it was just a dimly lit barn) we were told by our general, Joe Holt, that what we had to do now was wait and be prepared.

Some of our number went on night-time raids to houses where arms and ammunition were likely to be held. Mostly these were the houses of local yeomen. The general pointed out that the yeomen’s arms had been paid for by the people’s taxes and so the people were entitled to take hold of the same arms. I always admired the general’s logic. Joe Holt was a small, rotund, ruddy-faced man, mostly bald, but what hair he had was very curly.

During this time of waiting we heard of the arrest and subsequent death of Edward Fitzgerald.

As summer came that year hope began to wane. The rebellion was to take place on the 23rd of May and the signal was to be the halting of the mail coaches. The rising in Dublin was foiled, however, and the original plan was now in ruins.

On the 24th of May in the town of Dunlavin in west Wicklow all the republican prisoners were brought from the jail, tied together in twos and threes, and shot on the village green. My cousin John Dwyer of Seskin was among them. There was talk of going to Wexford and talk of Kildare, but I knew that before I went anywhere I would have to contrive to see Mary Doyle one more time.

Setting up the rendezvous was more complex now, and the journey and the meeting much more dangerous. A head stuck on a spike was not an uncommon sight in the countryside, and I came across two of them on my way to meet Mary. Both young men had been known to me. I crossed myself and said a prayer for their souls, but such are the ways of war.

Mary, Kevin and Roisin sat on a rug by the same ash tree. The two girls, Mary in a light summer dress, Roisin in a pink dress and bonnet, were making a daisy-chain. Kevin lay stretched out on his back, hands behind his head. When I arrived he stood up. From time to time Roisin would remove the bonnet from her head determinedly, only for Mary to replace it. Roisin handed me the daisy-chain for inspection, and I told her that I was very impressed. She ordered me to sit and help with the rest of the chain, and she was not the kind of lady you disobeyed.

‘Kevin,’ I said, ‘you see that tree?’

‘The beech?’

‘Aye. It looks like an easy climb. Go up as high as you can, so you have a view north and south. Watch out for forces of the crown. If you see anything do not cry out. Come down smartly and tell me.’

He stood to attention, gave me a salute, and ran to the tree.

Roisin chided me for my awkwardness in daisy-chaining because I kept cutting through the stem and not just making a neat hole for the next daisy to thread through. I soon got the hang of it and the child was pacified and occupied. I could now have a conversation with her sister.

‘These times will pass, but not immediately,’ I said.

She nodded.

‘I’ll have to go from here, and I do not know when we may meet again. Sorry, I make bold here. If it is your wish that we should meet.’

‘It is.’

‘You believe in the rightness of what I do? For me there is no option, you understand?’

‘I believe, yes.’

‘I think we may never get your father’s blessing.’

‘We will not.’

‘Not how things should be, ideally. Not how I would wish things to be. This is not the courtship I would have wanted.’

‘There will come a time for wooing.’

‘I hope. But you must wait.’

‘That I will, sir.’

That was as much conversation as we were permitted, because we now had to turn our attention to Roisin. That we did happily. Indeed there was nothing more to be said. Mary seemed content, and I was blissful. It was idyllic, the three of us on the rug by the ash tree on the river bank.

Kevin scampered down the tree and ran to us. Ashen faced he told us: ‘A troop of Ancient Britons.’

‘You sure it is them?’

‘Plumes on the helmets, blue riding cloaks. Oh, it is them.’

The Cambrian Horse, known as the Ancient Britons, had ridden from Ulster, through Louth and Dublin into Wicklow, leaving in their wake a trail of carnage.

‘Walking, trotting, what?’ I asked him.

‘Walking.’

‘Then let us pack everything neatly, but quickly and we’d best make our way into the woods. No panic!’

As we picked up the few possessions, rug, shawl and bonnets, I could tell from the approaching horse hooves that it was no longer a walk, but a brisk canter. I tried to hurry them along calmly, and we barely made it into the woods before the troop came into view.

‘My daisy-chain!’ the child shouted.

‘Leave it, we’ll make another,’ I said.

‘No, we’ll fetch it,’ Mary said, picking up Roisin and running to the path. They made it safely to the tree, where Mary put Roisin down and the child picked up the daisy-chain. Then the little one walked straight onto the path as the troops rounded the bend at a gallop. Roisin stood stock still staring at the horses. Mary froze by the tree. The riders saw the child, but they made no attempt to pull up or veer to the right or left. They rode straight at her and she disappeared from my view. I could see neither Roisin nor Mary now, only the galloping horses, a big red-faced sergeant to the fore. They passed and through the dust I could see Mary on her knees screaming. Beside her on the grass the child lay, mangled.

I knew before I touched the child to check for pulse or breath that she was dead. Mary was screaming and beating the ground. I think she shouted: ‘They saw her! They saw her!’

I held her as she sobbed, We must get her to a doctor.’

‘There is no use,’ I told her, ‘I’m sorry.’

Kevin knelt by his little sister, bewildered. Mary crawled to her, kissed her through her tears and tried to lift her broken body.

‘We must take her home,’ I said.

Placing the lifeless Roisin on the rug, I lifted it and started to walk.

Doyle was in the farmyard when we arrived, and I walked straight past him into the kitchen to place the child on the table. Behind me I could hear Kevin and Mary telling of the Cambrian horse and what had happened. I stepped aside as the big man came to the table. He wept and prayed over his daughter. Finally he said: ‘Go fetch your mother Kevin, I don’t know where...’ At this point he saw me, stared blankly at me for a moment and looked at Mary. Then the man lost all control, started to call me a murderer and grabbed me by the throat.

Mary shouting: ‘No, no, no!’ tried to pull him off me, and I managed to get free of his grip.

‘Go, Michael,’ she shouted, ‘go!’

I walked away. Nothing more to do or to say, I walked away. I prayed. Prayed for the soul of the child and for succour for the family in their grief. And, yes, I prayed for justice.

In the early hours of the morning of the 25th of June our company was part of a force of fifteen thousand men and we took a position on Kilmacart Hill overlooking Hackettstown, which was our objective. The Shebagh Cavalry lined the opposite side of the rapidly flowing Dereen River. They were accompanied by a force of infantry made up of militia and yeomen, and it was from these fellas we took fire. In fording the river we lost many, but once we’d crossed it we weren’t long in forcing the infantry to retreat towards the town.

Now I will not tell you here about my plan that dislodged the cavalry from their position and drove them back into Hackettstown to join their companions, because I know it is a story that has been told perhaps too frequently. Ah no, it is!

As a force of Wexford men attacked the town from another direction we soon cleared all the military off the streets and the town was ours apart from three positions which were heavily defended: a large private dwelling, the Malt House and the barracks. I learned a sore lesson that day about how difficult it is to dislodge a well-supplied force from stone structures unless you have artillery at your disposal, which of course we did not. Oh, now I was in a rage of frustration at having to abandon the project. That was our first engagement.

You see when we joined this war the Republic of Wexford was already in its last days, and we missed the great victories at Oulart Hill (where the republicans were led by a priest, despite the misgivings of the likes of Sam), Harrow and Eniscorthy. Of course we were also absent at the defeat in New Ross and the massacre at Vinegar Hill. Perhaps we would have made a difference in these engagements, but who is to say?

Now we were at Ballyellis, a mile from Carnew on the road to Monaseed with no accessible enemy to engage. But doesn’t the Lord always move in the strangest ways? This time he sent us a massive gift for which nobody but me had prayed.

A detachment of British cavalry had left Carnew intending to make Monaseed, and they included in their number the same murderous Ancient Britons. Joe Holt kept a clear head, which was just as well, because mine was now suddenly overcome with anger and vengeance. The road at Ballyellis is lined with thick bushes on both sides, making it ideal for an ambush. Holt ordered us on either side in such a way that we would not take our own fire. When we had fired a volley at them our pikemen tore into them immediately and soon there was hardly a single cavalryman left on a horse. Some of them did escape on foot into an adjoining field, but we were up and after them before Joe Holt had even given the order.

I saw my man among them—the big, red-faced bastard. I followed the bobbing plume of his helmet, which fell to the ground when I gave him a belt of the butt of my blunderbuss in the small of his back. ‘I hope,’ said I, ‘that your head will come off as easily as your helmet.’ It didn’t. When I was halfway through the hacking and the sawing I realised that my own blade might not be equal to the task. So I threw it to one side and picked up his sabre. That wasn’t long cutting through the meat. Fountains of blood spurted on the grass. I held the napper aloft. My comrades were overjoyed that for once we had one of theirs to stick on a spike! For myself I was just grateful the Lord had granted me vengeance.

On the day following the battle I wrote this letter to Mary Doyle. I would try to find a way to have it delivered personally to her in the townland of Knockandorragh in the parish of Donard.

Dearest Mary,

I felt compelled to write to you. Our acquaintance has been so brief and yet so desperately dramatic, marked as it was by that most terrible tragedy. Since that saddest of days I am haunted by the thought that if you had not met me, if I had not sought you out, if we had not been on that particular river bank on that particular day at that specific time, that the child might yet be alive. But, more certain than anything else, if that troop of Ancient Britons had not ridden that path or if they had chosen to halt their horse or veer to the right or to the left, then Roisin would still be with you.

It was nothing short of the murder of an innocent. We have recourse to no just law or court in these troubled times, and it is incumbent upon us to meet out our own justice, rough though it may be. In the case of your sister such justice has now been served. That troop of Ancient Britons has been destroyed, and the soldier who led them and perpetrated the murder has been executed by my own hand. His head is now impaled on a spike on the road at Bellyellis.

I know that is small consolation to you and your family in the agony of the grief you must now endure.

I wish I could be by your side and I hope that may be my situation one day. If only I could speak to your father and accomplish this in the correct way, but such an approach is closed to me. He blames me for the tragedy. True, we should not have met without his permission or spoken without his blessing. Yet, we did. Compelled by what? For myself I must now boldly declare that is was love for you. Oh, I wish that I could commence on a long and ardent courtship. The times prohibit this. I am a soldier in the midst of war, where time is amongst my many enemies. Tomorrow I may die. That is a fate, like any soldier, I am bound to accept. I cannot embrace it however without you knowing what I have declared herein. We will prevail in the fight. And if the feelings I have expressed are shared by you, then our love will also prevail.

It will not be long now my love until we walk unfettered from the pastures of west Wicklow into beloved Imaal, with,Keadeen, Carrig and Brusselstown Hill guarding the north and before us to the east, Table Mountain and the mighty Lug na Coille. And through the townland of Camarra we shall walk and ascend the great mountain itself and they will call you ‘Mountain Mary of Knockandorragh’ betrothed to the Wicklow chieftain Michael Dwyer. And we will wash in the clear waters of the Ow that ripples through her own deep valley. And we will ramble through Fairwood, and all the forests from Blessington east to the Downs and Kilduddery, for they will no longer be the preserve of Lords and Ladies hunting with the hounds.

Know that I will not rest until this be accomplished. Pray for me my dearest Mary.

I hope this finds you,

May God bless and keep you,

With love and respect,

Michael Dwyer

After Hackettstown, Ballyellis and another brief engagement at Carnew, the General led us back to Whelp Rock on Black Hill Mountain. The powers that be in the movement wanted us to go from there and invade County Meath. But I was against this because it meant meeting the enemy in flat, open country, however Joe determined to go. We did not fall out on this matter and he agreed that I should stay behind with part of our force, a continuing presence being necessary in Wicklow.

Well Joe’s sortie into Meath proved to be a disaster, and indeed he was lucky to escape with his life. The poor man, who suffered agonies from his stomach all his life, was in a desperate state altogether when he returned to us. He took command of us just the same and determined that we fight on and hold out until the French arrived, which we all believed would be soon and in great numbers.

The first French expedition had come within sight of Bantry Bay two years previously, but failed to land because of a storm. One of our number, Arthur Devereux, who was a cousin of mine, was familiar with the ways of the Directorate in Paris, and confident that the next French expedition was imminent. Arthur was the most serious man I ever met in my life, and for all the years I had known him I never once saw him crack a smile. Try as we might we could not knock a laugh out of him. Unlike other bases we would have Whelp Rock was not hidden and the presence of our force there was widely known. It was easy to defend, however and inaccessible even to a large force using artillery. It was not surprising then that Kevin Doyle found his way to the place. It was Martin Burke who brought him to me, along with two other teenagers, friends of Kevin. Lucky for them that Martin was the sentry who discovered them, because other fighters might not have treated them so gently. Martin was a fair-minded man of a calm disposition, but very precise, with a military bearing. He was, I suppose, what the women would call handsome. Good height, a fine crop of dark hair, and he had a pale, serene face.

‘They say they know you,’ he said.

‘Kevin Doyle I know, but not the other two.’

‘This is Fintan and this is Donal,’ he told me, pointing to his companions. One of them, Donal, was a fussy, foxy ferret of a lad, and Fintan, who could have been a dreamy genius or a gom, was a very blond specimen bordering on the albino. He carried a hurley, and Fintan a pitchfork. Kevin had a rusty old flintlock which must have belonged to his father. No powder or ammunition of course.

I told them that they should not have come, but he remarked: ‘Well they are with us now captain. They have seen the place and what’s in it and they can’t go back down.’

‘True,’ I said, and putting my arm round Kevin’s shoulder: ‘You take care of those two, I’ll talk with this one.’

Now, I was angry with Kevin for having come to this place, but I was very pleased to see him.

‘I’d say your family hate me enough without adding this adventure to it.’

‘Believe me captain, my family could not hate you any worse.’

I smiled at his calling me captain like a regular fighter, and full member. It was my rank of course, a rank I had been given before the fighting ever started.

‘How is she?’

‘She’s a pity. We all are. House of tears! She avoids my father now because it takes little or nothing to start him off. He blames her still, and you. Mary will not last long in that house. If my father has his way he’ll marry her off immediately, but if there is any sign of that I’d say she’ll run.’

‘Does she know about Ballyellis and the fate of the Ancient Britons? Of my letter?’

‘Oh yes, and how you took the head off the big fella. Yes, it made a difference to her knowing that justice had been done.’

So the three lads were set to work cleaning and cooking and making fires and Sam was to teach them how to prime, load and fire a musket. The young fellas went about their tasks with enthusiasm. In the case of Donal and Fintan this industry was motivated by fear of General Holt, and believe me this fear was not groundless. Joe was a ruthless man, who had once shot an eleven-year-old boy for giving information to the Yeos. That was Joe Holt for ye. Kevin Doyle stayed, out of commitment and admiration for the older fighters; in particular Sam MacAllister. He hero-worshiped him. Oh yes, if there was one person Kevin Doyle wanted to be, it was not Michael Dwyer but Sam MacAllister. Sam never raised his voice to the boy but instructed him quietly in his low Ulster lilt, and, under his tutelage, Kevin was becoming an expert shot. The boy was never happier, but I wanted him home with his family, because I did not want to be responsible for the death of yet another of Mary’s siblings. Every night I was haunted by the death of Roisin and I knew that the terrors Mary must be going through were even worse. How I wished we could share our grief. I confided in Sam, who chided me for being more interested in romance than revolution, but he did promise that he would guard and protect Kevin with his very life, and this was some consolation to me.

General Lake, who had commanded the British Forces in the Wexford campaign, instigated a reign of terror in County Wicklow, but this served only to harden the people’s hearts and drove more young men into the ranks of the United Irishmen. The authorities were no fools and they replaced Lake with Cornwallis, who was committed to a policy of appeasement.

In July, proclamations appeared in the press offering ‘protections’ to those who surrendered their arms and ‘returned to their allegiance’. General Holt read out for us the text of one of these so-called ‘certificates of protection’:

This is to certify that the Bearer hereof.....................of the Parish of...................... County............. by occupation..................... has surrendered himself, confessed his being engaged in the present Rebellion and............ has given up all his arms, and discovered of those which he knew to be concealed; has taken the Oath of Allegiance to His Majesty, His Heirs and Successors, and has abjured all former Oaths and Engagements in any wise whatsoever contrary thereto, and has bound himself to behave for the future as a peaceable and loyal Subject; in consequence whereof this certificate is given to the said............ in order that his person and his property may notin any wise be molested. And all His Majesty’s Officers, Magistrates, and other His Majesty’s loving subjects, are hereby enjoined to pay due Attention thereto, in Pursuance of the Proclamation issued............. General........ dated the..... of........ 1798; and this Certificate to be in full force so long as the said........... continues to demean himself as a peaceable and loyal Subject.

Dated at...........the........Day of............... 1798.

Now here was a way to get Kevin Doyle back to his family. It was immediately and generally agreed that no United Man could sign this pardon and remain part of the movement; however Arthur Devereux called for silence. He held up his finger for a moment and turned his head slightly, showing most of us his profile. It looked as though he might have been posing for a portrait but we knew he was just thinking matters through.

‘You could, if you didn’t mean it.’

At this Hugh Vesty Byrne bellowed: ‘You can’t take an oath of allegiance to the King!’

‘I’m only saying that it could be of tactical value to us,’ Arthur told him.

‘An oath is an oath,’ said Hugh, ‘and it is calling on God to witness. On God, mind!’

Arthur just shrugged.

Before Joe Holt came out with a definitive ruling on the matter I knew that I would be helpful to get Hugh Vesty on my side.

‘But sure you’re only signing a piece of paper, Hugh Vesty,’ I said. ‘It is not as though you have one hand on the Bible and the other raised to the Lord. If people want to go back to their families and their farms, then they should be given the opportunity to do that. I’m thinking especially about the young lads here. I think it is too much to ask that they stay with us for the long haul, and this is an opportunity for them to go back to their parents without being thrown in jail, or pitch-capped or piked or whatever. And also, if we are going to conduct a war in this countryside we are going to need the help of the people, and these good lads can be our eyes and ears among them. We all know that the place is crawling with spies and we have to be on our guard. What do you say General?’

Joe himself was a married man with children and, although he was tough, he had a heart.

‘I’ll leave it up to the lads,’ he said. ‘Donal!’

Donal had a hoarse voice which did not seem to have fully broken yet, so in one sentence he could go from boy treble to basso profundo. He was the butt of cruel japes and the source of much merriment. ‘Yes sir (high). Please sir (very low). (a cough) I’d like to go home sir!’ he said, standing rigidly to attention. The fair-haired Fintan spoke in rapid bursts: ‘Well, yes, I suppose, all things considered, eh, what would be best for all concerned, not just for myself I mean, but to go home, yes.’

‘As you wish,’ said the General. ‘That leaves only Kevin. Well?’

Kevin stood before the General, but he looked at Sam. I tell you, I was annoyed by this. Call it jealousy if you wish, but I did not care for the way Kevin always deferred to Sam, and that habit was making this moment much more awkward for me. Of course I admired Sam and I trusted him, but I needed him to be supportive of me and firm with Kevin in this circumstance and he let me down. Instead of telling the boy to go back to his family he turned away and removed himself from the scene. Inevitably, Kevin said: If you please General, I would like to stay sir.’

‘But your parents need you,’ I said. After all they’ve been through recently! And now you are going to heap further stress and worry on them!’

‘I’ll be flogged as soon as I cross the threshold,’ Kevin told the assembly. ‘My parents are royalists. They hate the rebellion and the United Irishmen. If they had their way they would turn us all over to the authorities. I believe in what we are doing and I must stay. My parents are wrong and my place is here.’

I thought he’d get a round of applause from the rest of them.

‘Well spoken lad. You can stay and welcome,’ Holt told him.

‘The boy is needed at home,’ I tried again. ‘Of course you might get a slap or two from your father, but if you pretend to him that you have seen the light and wish to follow the King he’ll go easy on ye, and think of the value you could be to us, stationed in the ranks of the enemy.’

‘That is a good point you make there,’ said Hugh Vesty.

‘I want to fight. I don’t want to spy!’ said Kevin.

‘You’ll do what is best for the movement!’ said I.

‘Indeed he must,’ said Hugh Vesty, but then unfortunately added: ‘Mind you, ‘tis for the General to decide that.’

‘Well, young Kevin, I think you have the makings of a good soldier,’ said Holt. ‘And he’s making progress, with the firearms MacAllister, yes?’

Sam nodded.

Later that morning Fintan and Donal went to the British Army camp to get General Moore to sign their Protections. They would then make their way across the hills to their homes near Donard. I was still unhappy about Kevin remaining in the camp, but I had to wait until later that day, when General Holt had gone from the camp, to make my move.

The first thing I did was enlist the help of Hugh Vesty and Sam, both of whom Kevin admired. So we commenced on a three-pronged attack.

I held the Protection scroll out to him, but he said: ‘No, Michael!’

‘You have your Protection,’ I told him. ‘No one can harm you.’

‘I want to stay out,’ he protested, stamping his feet like a spoilt brat.

‘God, I’d surely like to be going home to some home cooking,’ contributed Sam.

‘Wouldn’t we all!’ Hugh Vesty added weakly.

‘Your family will hold me responsible for your safety Kevin,’ I told him, ‘and I can’t vouch for that. No man can guarantee another man’s safety in this... ’

He interrupted me.

‘’Tis my sister you are interested in, not me!’

This met with whoops and jeers from my two so-called allies, and I had to turn on them. ‘Citizens, I’ll thank you not to trivialise this very serious situation!’

‘Oh now surely,’ said Sam, ‘love is never a thing to be trivialised.’

‘The Doyles will never accept you as a husband for their daughter Michael Dwyer,’ Sam told me, sympathetically.

‘Of course they won’t!’ Kevin shouted. ‘Why? Because they are loyalists and despise republicans. My father is a lackey and a coward and I hate him.’

None of us saw the clatter coming, but the sound of the slap resounded when Sam’s hand connected with Kevin’s face. As the boy’s cheek reddened his eyes filled with tears. He stuttered an intake of breath and blew out the air to stop himself from blubbering.

‘Never, ever speak in that way about your father. Do you hear me boy?’ Sam looked at him sternly and Kevin nodded. Then Sam turned to Hugh Vesty and told him: ‘Bring the horse, Hugh Vesty.’

Hugh Vesty brought a horse that was ready-saddled. Sam lifted the boy and set him on the mount. I handed Kevin the Protection.

‘Be our eyes and ears Kevin,’ Sam told him. ‘Your contribution will be a very important one lad: in many ways more important than what we do here. You will be able to save lives and direct us as to how to bring down the enemy. Will you do this for us, Kevin?’

The boy nodded.

‘Good man!’ said Sam, and slapped the rump of the horse.

Kevin rode off, and I tell you he was not the happiest soldier in Ireland. We watched him ride for a while and then Hugh Vetsy started to coo to me: ‘Uh-hoo! Mary Doyle!’

I thought about giving him a dig but he was an All Ireland wrestling champion, if indeed such a title legitimately existed. Though, in fairness now, he did ground anyone who came up against him.

Now there had been a report of a troop of Yeoman Cavalry from Talbotstown, some miles to the north, earlier in the day. Sam pointed out that that would mean that the barracks at Talbotstown would be lightly guarded at best, presenting us with an opportunity.

‘Muskets, powder and ball!’ said Hugh Vesty.

‘They will be there aplenty,’ I said.

We got a raiding party together speedily; it included Sam, Hugh Vesty, Arthur Devereux and Martin Burke. There were some like the Halpin brothers who did not want to ride with us because General Holt was not there. I pointed out that the General put me, as captain, in charge, and that I was sure he would want us to use our initiative, adding that we were in dire need of arms and ammunition. I wasn’t going to order anyone; volunteers was what I wanted.

We set out early that afternoon.

Our approach to the barracks was screened by a row of ash trees. So when we first saw the two heads it looked as though they were suspended in mid-air, because we couldn’t see the spikes with the trees in the way. But there they were, fresh and still dripping blood, one foxy and one blond. For a moment we were transfixed, staring at the heads, as dumbly as they stared back at us. Sam broke the silence with a shout of ‘Kevin!’ and we wheeled our horses round and galloped north.

Now I needed to keep my head!

By now Kevin would have had his Protection signed at the British Army camp and be making for home. What we needed was a vantage point on the mountains which would give us best view of the trek Kevin would take. I knew of such a place, but it was going to be easier to get there on foot than on horseback.

So we left our horses and scrambled across the last couple of miles of rough terrain.

We heard them before ever we saw them. There was a peel of laughter followed by a scream. As we edged forward and prepared our weapons we heard more: ‘Please don’t. It is my Protection!’ cried Kevin’s voice. We all sighed with relief, because at least he was alive. ‘Eat it!’ shouted a voice that I knew belonged to one Colbert, a captain in the yeos and as bad an egg as ever was laid. ‘Your companions did and they seemed to find it extremely tasty!’ he added, which was met with more laughter. ‘Once you have consumed it you can then choose which one of your own body parts you would like to eat. A finger goes very well with parchment. Have we any suggestions?’ There were plenty of suggestions and much laughter from those cursed yeos.

By now we had them in our sights and could see that they were tearing bits off the Protection and forcing Kevin to eat them.