Dark Rosaleen (12 page)

CHAPTER 8

A group of men drank a health in an upper room of a small inn in Basle.

‘Mother Erin dressed in green ribbons by a French milliner if she can’t be dressed without!’

They had no need for ambiguity, but used a formula. The toast was one often honoured at their secret meetings in Dublin.

When they had, with this glass of wine, finished their meal, Lord Edward Fitzgerald, Arthur O’Connor and Major Jackson sat in silence over their coffee.

Since the outbreak of war with England, France had shown herself very willing to listen to proposals put forward by the Irish patriots, and schemes for a French invasion of Ireland, of which Theobald Wolfe Tone was the linch-pin, had been continually urged in Paris. Lord Edward had not very willingly come to what he still considered a desperate expedient, the introduction of an armed foreign force in Ireland, but his conscience had been soothed by the proviso which the United Irishmen had made already with the Directory, which was that their armies should come as allies in the same manner in which Rochambeau had gone to America, and that they should, while in Ireland, receive Irish pay and be treated as Irish troops. A complete national independence, a Republic on the model of the Republics of America and France was the bold and glittering ideal at which these Irishmen aimed.

These three had come to Basle to meet Lazare Hoche, the brilliant general who had recently put down, with as much tolerance and mercy as swiftness and skill, the last desperate revolt of the Royalists in La Vendèe.

Fitzgerald had been informed that, owing to his connection with the d’Orléans family, through his marriage with Pamela, his presence in Paris was not desirable, in case it seemed that he was engaged in some intrigue to raise M. d’Orléans to the throne. The jealous French Republicans had not forgotten their suspicions of some years when M. Dumouriez had been believed to have some hope of elevating the heir of the cadet branch of the house of Bourbon to the honours forfeited by the elder line.

The Irishman laughed at these ill-founded suspicions; he had not seen M. d’Orléans since he had been a witness at his marriage in Tournai, and that unfortunate prince, who had refused to serve Austria against his country and whom his country refused to now employ, wandered a penniless exile between America and Switzerland, earning his living as best he might.

O’Connor said: ‘This seems the wrong setting in which to discuss a conspiracy — and, Fitzgerald, I do not like the place; it throws me into lethargy.’

Fitzgerald, staring from the window at the moving, golden-green pattern of clear, fading leaves and withered berries through which the autumn wind moved slowly, did not reply. Though so full of energy, rapid in his decisions and his movements he was (he alone knew how much) often lost in dreams and tormented by the sensation that he was being hurried on to his destiny without his own volition. He was animated by hopes as to the success of the enterprise to which he had put his hand, and yet he viewed secretly (for he was careful not to say anything openly that might damp the ardour of his companions) the whole prospect with an odd misgiving; he thought often of his little cottage in Kildare as of a lost paradise. What a brief secluded interlude that had been, the garden where he had worked with his own hands, the bay window with the honeysuckle where Pamela had sat and sewed her baby clothes, the child in his cradle, the veiled Irish sky above, the view beyond the low wall, the shining beauty of the river — all lost, so soon and so suddenly! If he should ever come on such peace again, he felt there was much terror and confusion to be passed through first.

He shook himself from his musing and turned his eyes from the lulling rhythm of the boughs waving in the sunshine, and spoke on a half sigh.

‘Our friend is late, but when travelling one cannot be exact in one’s appointments. I wish they had let me go to Paris.’

But Arthur O’Connor, who had so frequently and with such skill penetrated in different disguises into the French capital and had had several interviews with M. Carnot, remarked ‘that it was as well that Lord Edward had not been allowed to go to Paris, where surely he and his black servant, who was inseparable from him, would soon be noticed.’

‘Yes, I fear poor Tony betrays me. I have not got it in my heart to leave him behind. I tried to persuade him to stay with Pamela in Hamburg.’

‘But even without Tony,’ said Arthur O’Connor, ‘you might, sir, be very easily recognised, and what good would that do you or the United Irishmen, and what pain might it not inflict on your family!’

‘I don’t like to think of them. I don’t indeed.’

‘There is no hope of bringing over his Grace?’ asked O’Connor.

‘I suppose when we are successful a great many people may come over to us — I can’t answer for more than that.’

The door had opened abruptly and a tall man in a plain travelling cloak, grey with dust, entered the room; the three Irishmen rose, all instantly recognising General Hoche. He was notable in any company not only for his uncommon height and bold bearing, but for the deep purple sabre scar which puckered his face from brow to eye.

‘I am sorry,’ said Fitzgerald, ‘not to have been allowed to wait on you in Paris, General Hoche. I hardly thought you would take the trouble to come to Basle to meet us here.’

‘I remember you in ’92,’ replied Hoche, looking at him keenly, ‘but I did not, however, take much notice of you then. I thought now, that since I am to lead this expedition to Ireland, I would like to have the close acquaintance of the man who is to be the military leader — I understand, Monsieur, that you are chosen?’

Fitzgerald flushed; he felt himself an amateur leader compared to Hoche.

‘It is a question,’ he smiled, ‘of the best we have — a poor best, I admit, sir, but there are no soldiers in our organisation of greater experience than myself.’

‘A good deal of experience is needed,’ said Hoche. He seated himself at the small table, sighed, pulled off his gloves and cloak and threw them down carelessly on the floor, then, pouring himself coffee from the warm pot in front of him, drank eagerly; it was a long journey from Paris to Basle and he must soon undertake it again, for he could not long be spared from the capital.

‘I have heard a great deal about your Irish affairs,’ he continued, in his forceful, frank manner, ‘from Mr. Tone, who is an ardent patriot if ever there was one! Why, the man leaves one no peace day or night urging on this famous expedition. He has given me dozens of maps and plans and prepared a thousand schemes for my landing in Bantry Bay.’

‘There can be no better place,’ said Fitzgerald, eagerly. ‘And you, sir, could have no better adviser than Mr. Wolfe Tone, who has given years of his life to this affair.’

‘He does not,’ asked Hoche with a dry smile, ‘exaggerate? Pardon me, gentlemen, but your nation seems enthusiastic.’

‘Our affairs make us so,’ replied Fitzgerald, rising. ‘It is a country groaning under tyranny — since England has been involved in war with France she has, naturally as it might seem, but in reality most foolishly, treated the Irish with unparalleled severity. I do not disguise from you, sir, that I, for one,’ continued the young man with increasing animation, ‘would have been very glad to have been the ally of England if she would have given us reasonable terms, nay, even recognised our existence and honoured our liberties, but since she has chosen to endeavour to exterminate us (it is no less than that, sir, exterminate us), since she has recalled Lord Fitzwilliam, a moderate and a tolerant man, since one cruel, implacable, unjust, like Lord Clare, has been given all influence, since we may neither speak nor act, but must with the least voicing of our minds be judged as traitors, why, then, I have come to resolve, sir, that there is no help for us but in a foreign force. The terms of that help,’ he added, ‘have been put before the Directory.’

‘That is none of my business.’ Hoche smiled over his coffee cup. ‘I am to get these frigates to Ireland — Brest to Bantry Bay — land my men and join you in a rising of the native Irish which you, sir, have no doubt skilfully prepared.’

‘Mr. O’Connor will answer you,’ said Fitzgerald. ‘He knows more of that matter than I do. I have but newly taken an active part.’

O’Connor said: ‘The United Irishmen are very well organised from Belfast to the south. You know, sir, we were military to start with, the Irish volunteers raised in ’89, and we have not lost any of our old discipline. It is hardly an exaggeration to say that there is no true Irishman who does not belong to us. I do not speak only for the Catholics, we count Dissenters, all grades of Protestants in our ranks — Mr. Tone is the secretary for the Catholic movement. Catholics, as you know, sir, have been more deeply wronged than any, tantalised so often by promises of reform which at the last minute have been denied them.’

‘I know your grievances,’ replied the French soldier. ‘They are the same as those of all subject people, and as I said before, all that fringes on politics is no concern of mine. I would know something of the practical side of affairs, for instance, how am I to feed my troops?’

‘Ireland,’ replied Fitzgerald at once, ‘has been supplying nearly the whole of the English army. These supplies, diverted to your ranks, sir, should leave you with no need for complaint.’

‘And,’ said Mr. O’Connor, ‘you will arrive when the harvest is being taken in; there will be abundance of everything.’

‘So Mr. Tone assured me,’ smiled Hoche, ‘but I am not sorry to get your confirmation — I’ve read some history — heard some tales of 1689 —’

‘And as for arms, we have a certain amount,’ continued O’Connor. ‘Large numbers of the Militia are ready to come over to us with, of course, their weapons and artillery, and our first action upon rising will be to seize the military depôts.’

‘The English keep a very small force in Ireland?’ asked Hoche dryly.

‘Yes, they believe the people reduced to a level from which there can be no fear of violence.’

Lazare Hoche tapped on the table with his fingers; he seemed not altogether satisfied and continually looked sharply at Lord Edward Fitzgerald. ‘This open disaffection, this almost open rebellion, these secret meetings, these illegal societies have been going on for some years? And the English government are so ill served that they have suspected nothing?’

‘They may have suspected a good deal,’ said O’Connor, ‘but they believe that they have suppressed all. They continually seize printing presses, papers, put editors and writers into jail.’

‘But,’ insisted Hoche earnestly, ‘they have no idea of this scheme? That a foreign invasion is planned? That there is a design to seize Dublin Castle, the Viceroy and his staff?’

‘None whatever,’ smiled O’Connor.

‘And you have, in this wide organisation stretching all over the country, among these men of all ranks and classes whom you have enrolled, not one traitor, not one informer?’

‘Not one,’ replied the three Irishmen almost together; Lord Edward, to whom suspicion of any one was impossible, laughed and added: ‘Why should you think, General Hoche, that there are any such base fellows among us?’

Hoche replied dryly: ‘Among a vast gathering of conspirators there is usually at least one traitor; among a large body of supposed honest men usually at least one who may be bought.’

‘I would answer for the fidelity of all the gentlemen whom I have met.’

Hoche exclaimed: ‘Why, sir, that’s a very rash pledge,’ and he stared curiously at Fitzgerald.

Arthur O’Connor replied: ‘I do not think so, I believe, General Hoche, that you need not be tormented by any fear of treachery.’

The young French general continued to look at them all steadily, folding his arms on the table and leaning forward among the wine glasses

‘Well,’ he said at length. ‘I think I know how to read men, and you, I believe, gentlemen, are to be relied upon, as far as daring and fidelity go. For your abilities,’ he added, with simple frankness, ‘I may not answer. And maybe ability will count in this venture for more than daring or fidelity.’

Fitzgerald replied with candid simplicity: ‘I was not ill thought of in the army — I did pretty well in the American war and was about to have been promoted, and not through favour either, when I was cashiered for that banquet at White’s.’

Lazare Hoche rose suddenly; the other men got to their feet. The Frenchman had much on his mind. This expedition to Ireland appealed to him in many ways; he was himself an enthusiast, a son of the people who had lived to see the people triumphant, and a soldier of genius. In this task which the Directory had assigned to him, a task both difficult and splendid, he saw an opportunity to gratify his ambition and sustain his principles. He was not insensible to the glory of being the deliverer of Ireland, nor insensitive, for he was a humane and generous man, to the pleasure of rescuing an oppressed people. But the proposed expedition seemed very formidable in the eyes of the experienced soldier; he had discounted much of the burning enthusiasm of Wolfe Tone, and he was disposed to discount something of the confidence of the three gentlemen before him. He wondered if in this young nobleman, so charming, so amiable, full of courage and fire but inexperienced in either statecraft or military leadership and candid and open to a fault, there was quite the man for this venture.

He said gravely: ‘I recommend to you, gentlemen, prudence, and yet I know there is no good advising a man against his nature.’ Then, directly addressing Fitzgerald: ‘If you, sir, could, for the sake of others, do violence to your native candour, be circumspect, even crafty,’ but looking into the ingenuous face before him he broke off with a laugh. ‘No, ’tis useless!’