The Year of the French (49 page)

“It is indeed.”

“Oh,” she cried impatiently. “I cannot say what I mean and you will not understand me. You are more important to me than Ireland, and so am I, and my father and the fellows out in the field and everyone that I have ever seen. When you say that you want to free Ireland, I do not know what you mean. I declare to God I do not. A young fellow like you, only a few years older than I am myself. If you said that you wanted to free a pig stuck in a fence I would know what you mean, because I know what a pig is. And a fence.”

“In fact you sound very like my brother. As though you had read the same books.”

“You may depend upon it that we have not. I have enough to keep me busy.”

“It is late in the day for this conversation, Ellen dear. It has begun. Battles have been fought.”

“Battles! There have been houses burned by ignorant faction fighters, if you mean that.”

“Call them what you will. Did you know that I have been made President of the Republic in Connaught?”

“Yes,” she said, and stared at him as though she wished to laugh but had not the will. “So I have heard. You are very young for such an honour.”

“It is not me that they honour, but the brother of the master of Moore Hall. The French have queer notions of equality, for all their talk.”

“If you were not his brother you would be a happier man.”

“What do you mean?”

Her hand strayed to the remnants of bright-coloured cloth, moving them forward and back.

“He is much in your thoughts,” she said. “What you do is always a kind of quarrel with him.”

“By God, you can talk foolishly when you want to! There are no two brothers could be more fond of each other. We differ in our politics, that is all.”

“Oh, politics! I don’t care tuppence for politics. They mean nothing. George is a very cool man. He can be infuriating. Do you never find him so?”

“It is not to talk about George that I rode out here, but about ourselves.”

“There is nothing for us to say, John. My father has the right of it there. John, do you not know that what you have done is rebellion? That they can hang you? Oh, what good is there in talking at all? And I so much in love with you. Oh, what will I do? What will you do?”

She turned away from him, and stepped to the window. Beyond her, he saw a field’s pale green, the grey stones of fences. Her shoulders moved below her quiet crying.

“I cannot, Ellen. What is done is done. I can do nothing else.” But she did not reply, and he put his arms around her again, holding her without speaking.

“I would go with you anywhere,” she said at last. “That is what I would wish to tell you. But I cannot. It is what they say in songs only. I will bide here, and there will be no life for us together.”

“There will be,” he said. “You will see.”

But in that moment, though he still stared absently towards field and fence, he saw himself as clearly as in a pier glass. An open, candid face, unlined by experience, confident without cause, shock of yellow hair brighter than the girl’s, a young man’s face. Face of suitor or student, horseman riding full tilt towards fence or ditch. Again, as with George, with Geraghty, with her father, he felt himself shoved brutally towards a role empty of meaning, flimsy and persistent. He remembered and was mocked by the vari-coloured cloths scattered on the table: patches for a clown’s motley.

FROM “YOUTHFUL SERVICE: WITH
CORNWALLIS IN IRELAND,”  BY
MAJOR GENERAL SIR HAROLD WYNDHAM

On the second of September, Cornwallis was joined at Tuam by two English regiments, the Queen’s and the Twenty-ninth, which had come by forced march from Wexford. Placing these under his personal command, he moved northwards at once, and set his headquarters at Hollymount, close to Ballinrobe and some thirteen miles from the rebel “capital” at Castlebar. Colonel Crauford, a Scottish officer in whom he placed a well-justified confidence, took forward a detachment of his dragoons to reconnoitre, and discovered that the rebels had begun to withdraw their outposts close to that town. On his return ride, however, he was assailed by a rebel band near the lodge gates of Mr. George Moore, whose brother was an insurgent chieftain. With their long, murderous pikes, the rebels hacked viciously at riders, horses, and bridles, and contrived to skewer two dragoons before being themselves overpowered.

Colonel Crauford summarily hanged a number of these wretches, but four of them he brought into Hollymount, stumbling along before troopers who were none too gentle with them. This was our first view of the native enemy, and a most deplorable appearance they made. They were fellows of the lowest sort, rough-dressed and rough-visaged, scowling with fear and hatred. One of our Irish officers sought to question them but could learn little. They were from one of the remote western baronies of Mayo, and as primitive as the tribesmen of Otaheetee, although lacking in that rude grace which Captain Cook attributes to his South Sea Islanders. The rebels had placed them there precisely to waylay and murder our outriders, but surely could not have intended that this bare score should attack so heavily mounted a force as Crauford’s dragoons. And yet, pathetically faithful to their hideous instructions, they had done just that. They were either, as is the more likely case, most ignorant and stupid, or else possessed a courage worthy of a better cause.

Crauford, a lean and peppery Highlander who was to distinguish himself under the great Wellington in the Peninsular wars, was a most able and resourceful cavalryman, although his ways, it must be confessed, were rough and ready. He was still a youngish man at the time of which I write, but possessed an easy confidence which I greatly envied, joined to a dry and sardonic humour and an impatience with the more cautious temperaments of his elders. He was to earn among the peasantry of the west a reputation for unbridled cruelty second only to those enjoyed by General Lake and Dennis Browne. It is a reputation which I have no wish to challenge, for I was myself to witness deeds of his upon which memory would gladly draw a veil. I do not believe, however, that these passed beyond the harsh and stern usages of warfare, and it is certain that a time of rebellion holds no season for lenient measures.

That night, Lord Roden, on behalf of our Irish commanders, made formal protest to Lord Cornwallis against the subordinate positions in which they had been placed. Cornwallis cut him off, however, and although both his tone and his language were courteous, he made it clear that he questioned the resolve of the Irish common soldiers and the experience of their officers. And he thus taught a lesson which was to stand me in good stead throughout my career: that colonials can only be employed with confidence when they have received the stiff backbone of British regulars. It was a lesson which was to prove itself over and over, and although this may be but the prejudice of a military man, I believe it to be the lesson upon which rests the strength of our empire.

This took place at a meeting which Cornwallis had called with his staff officers and officers in command of regiments, at which, with his customary courtesy and tact, he invited their suggestions as to how we might best proceed with the task before us. He was spending the night in the substantial dwelling place of a Protestant farmer whose name, as I best recall it, was Prendergast, and the conference was held in a commodious kitchen, at a large oak table across which had been thrown the capacious cloth of green baize which had accompanied Lord Cornwallis from his campaigning days in North America. He sipped constantly at his cups of chocolate, to which he repaired as might other men to hardier stimulants. Perhaps his habit asserted the comfort and security of an English drawing room against the savage darkness of treeless bogs.

The task before us was a clear and a simple one, but he was determined that it should be accomplished without errors on the part of his subordinates. The circumstances of the Castlebar battle were now neatly reversed. Once again a large British force would be confronting a smaller army of Frenchmen and rebels. Now, however, the enemy would be the defenders of the town, and the British on the attack. The enemy, should he manage to fight us off, could move only towards the midlands, across the Shannon, or, as an improbable alternative, eastwards towards Ulster. But for him to move in either direction, it would be necessary for him to get past the British line, which extended from Sligo to Boyle. Cornwallis, however, did not repose sufficient confidence in this line. He therefore proposed to divide our forces. He would himself attack Castlebar. General Lake would join General Nugent, and move forward from Frenchpark, in Roscommon. Should Humbert manage to elude us at Castlebar, Cornwallis proposed to cross the Shannon at Carrick, thus placing the rebels between the two wings of our army, with no retreat possible, save backwards towards the sea.

It was General Lake who broke the silence which followed Cornwallis’s exposition.

“Lord Cornwallis, I must be more than usually slow-witted tonight. Is it not the fact that the enemy lies at this moment twelve miles distant from us, with a force that cannot exceed three thousand men?”

“Perhaps three thousand, perhaps five. It is difficult to form judgements upon the information given us by the poor frightened loyalists. And we must remember that their victories will have swelled the rebel ranks. The rest of the country may be at peace for the moment, but I do not doubt that Connaught has gone into a state of general insurrection.”

“Five thousand, then. Very well. Even then we outnumber him heavily. And the most of those thousands are clumsy, ignorant Irish peasants.”

“Clumsy and ill armed,” Cornwallis said. “Armed with pikes.”

“At best,” Lake said. “Pikes and scythes. Some of them are shoved into battle with scythes. I have seen them.”

“You have indeed,” Cornwallis said, but Lake did not feel the sting in the words.

“Then why in God’s name do we not attack him as soon as the sun has risen?”

“There is a further point,” Lord Roden said. “The French are not likely to have sent over a thousand men and there’s an end to it. A second fleet will be following this one. We should wipe this fellow off the ground right now, before that happens.”

“It will not happen before sunrise,” Cornwallis said. “The main body of our reinforcements will not be here for another day. By then General Lake will have taken up his position to the east.”

“We outnumber him now,” Lake said, his patience wearing thin. “We outnumber him heavily, and we should engage him now.”

Cornwallis smiled at him, and nodded towards the cook who was keeping his chocolate hot. “After your own unfortunate experience, General Lake, can you believe that we are dealing with some simple-minded colonel of moss-troopers? Our General Humbert is a most skilful commander, whose chief weapon is not the scythe, but the unexpected. Perhaps you can deal with the unexpected, but I must confess that it throws me into confusion. I am a most unimaginative and methodical kind of fellow, and my only weapon against the unexpected is an overwhelming superiority in numbers.” Colonel Crauford’s long-jawed Highland face broke into an ill-natured grin at Lake’s expense.

“The Crown is in your debt, General,” Cornwallis went on, in the most agreeable tone imaginable, “for your victories over the rebels in Wexford, but we must remember that you had only peasants to deal with then, blundering peasants with none to lead them save a few bloodthirsty priests. Humbert has a thousand seasoned French troops, well armed and supported by artillery. The very best artillery, cast in Sheffield by British gunsmiths. He has the cannon which you gave him as a gift when you fled from Castlebar.”

It had been long in coming, that reproof for the defeat at Castlebar, and was the more devastating for coming without warning, and in the gentle manner of a man discussing a game of cards at his club. Even Crauford’s mouth fell open, and poor Lake turned the colour of beetroot, his cheeks and neck rivalling the scarlet of his uniform.

And yet he said, with a quiet dignity that earned our admiration, “If you believe that I am capable of taking the east wing, you will not regret it, Lord Cornwallis. Should the Frenchman get past Castlebar, you may depend upon my meeting him and destroying him.”

“You will do no such thing,” Cornwallis said sharply. “You will of course deny him access to Ulster, even at the risk of battle. But I prefer that you should not engage him. You will harry him constantly, by striking at him and then moving off, and by harrying him, you will drive him closer and closer to me. I want him in a vice, where we can crush him between us. No matter how enticing it may seem, you are not to engage him head on. You are of course familiar with that kind of tactic. As I recall, you marched up and down Wexford for several weeks before attacking the rebels on Vinegar Hill. I cannot imagine why.” Lake began to speak, but Cornwallis held up his hand. “No need to explain, General. No need. It was a great victory.”

Much later that night, Cornwallis lay abed scribbling off letters to friends in England, as was his habit, in a gown of white linen, with a lace nightcap perched atop his sparse grey hairs, looking for all the world like Sir Roger de Coverley.

He drew his pen across his lips, and then said to me, “You are wondering, Lieutenant, whether it was right of me to taunt General Lake as I did. It was. On the whole it was. Unpleasant but right. General Lake will now perform prodigies in his efforts to conform to my wishes. He will take a sullen, self-pitying pride in carrying out orders which he believes to be ill judged and craven. Nothing makes a soldier happier, especially a stupid one. Soldiers are hired to win wars, not battles, but few of them seem able to grasp the fact. Indeed, I believe that he will spend the rest of his life living down Castlebar, poor fellow. I find him a most disagreeable chap, without imagination or style. Do you not agree, Lieutenant?”

I of course made no reply, but busied myself with his papers.

“Most disagreeable. Why, you are asking, do I return him in command. The British army is an old, established firm, Lieutenant, and we plan to remain in business for a long time to come. It simply does not do to plunge a general into disgrace because he has lost a battle. Let the Frenchies do that. They are forever shooting their generals or hanging them, now they have their guillotine, allows them to do it wholesale, and for a time the results are impressive. Keeps everyone on his best behaviour. But it won’t do for the long haul. By the time this campaign is over, General Lake will have earned himself a decoration. For bravery, of course, not cleverness. Now, this Humbert is a clever man. But we never really trust clever men, do we? Old established firms are based upon trust.”