1646
Brian O’Byrne and his wife stood in the empty street. The town of Kilkenny was quiet. It was a December afternoon. It was cold. And he didn’t know what to do.
He had experienced many things in the last five years. Danger. A little joy—his wife had given him a fine new son two years ago. Some loneliness, even moments of depression. But nothing had been harder than the choice before him now.
He glanced at his wife. There was nothing very special-looking about Jane O’Byrne. She was a pleasant, light-haired young woman with small, neat teeth, who might have been a landowner’s wife in any one of the four provinces. But she had brought Brian O’Byrne money and some fine connections, and she knew it.
They had been together in Kilkenny for three days now. Tomorrow he was due to go down into Munster; she was returning to Rathconan, which was safe for the moment. They had been busy days, and happy ones, but he had not been able to tell her what was on his mind. And he was still wondering how to bring the subject up when he heard a voice, calling his name, behind him. He turned.
Father Lawrence Walsh was in his early sixties now. His sparse grey hair was clipped short. His face was thinner, striated with deep vertical lines; but his wiry body was vigorous. He greeted Jane, and looked at O’Byrne keenly.
“We last met here in Kilkenny, I think,” he said.
Four years ago. It seemed more like an age. The meeting had drawn Catholic leaders from all over Ireland. O’Byrne had gone there with Sir Phelim. That was when they had decided that if the revolt begun in Ulster was to have any chance of success, then the Catholics of all Ireland must form a single, disciplined organization, like the Covenanters in Scotland. They had set up a Supreme Council—Sir Phelim was one of its members—and a network of local leaders in every county. The Catholic Confederation, they called it, and made their headquarters in the town of Kilkenny, in South Leinster. While the English government had held Dublin, and the Scottish settlers had held the ports of Eastern Ulster, the Kilkenny council had controlled huge tracts of Ireland for most of the time since.
“I also saw you again, here in Kilkenny,” the Jesuit continued, “the day the Nuncio arrived. But you didn’t see me in the crowd.”
The twenty-fifth of October 1645. A symbolic day, never to be forgotten: the arrival of the Nuncio, Archbishop Rinuccini, the personal emissary of the Pope to the Catholic Confederation at Kilkenny. The rebirth of Catholic Ireland.
They had received him like the Holy Father himself. O’Byrne remembered the crowds lining the road outside the town for miles. The finest scholars of the region had come out to greet him; one of them, crowned with laurels in the Roman manner, had made a Latin address. Then, holding a canopy over the Nuncio’s head, they had led him through the doors of Saint Patrick’s church, where the clergy of Ireland awaited him. Afterwards, Archbishop Rinuccini had been conducted to the castle, where the Confederation’s Supreme Council were gathered. Thanks to Sir Phelim, O’Byrne had been allowed into the castle’s great hall, where the Nuncio, seated on a throne covered with a rich damask of red and gold, addressed them all in Latin, and gave them a message of encouragement from the Holy Father. It had been a magnificent occasion.
And as he’d looked around the great concourse of gentlemen, soldiers, and priests, O’Byrne had been struck by a thought. Here were hundreds of men, some Irish like himself, others Old English like the Walshes. Nearly all of them spoke both languages. Whatever their ancestry, they belonged to Ireland and were united by their Catholic faith. Many of them, moreover, had been educated in the great schools of France, Spain, or Italy, or served, like Owen Roe O’Neill, in the great Catholic armies of continental Europe. And here they were, a government in waiting, being addressed by the Nuncio in the same Latin that Saint Patrick himself had spoken. This was the true Hibernia, he’d thought: an ancient member of the great, universal family of Catholic Christendom. This was what the sacred land of Ireland should be.
Though he and Father Lawrence had never been particular friends, he was glad to get some news of Orlando.
“I cannot go to see him, of course,” the Jesuit explained. “The Dublin Protestants have complete control of Fingal. But he remains at the estate. He has a hundred government troops to feed. But he is left in peace, and Lord Ormond protects him.”
Despite the fact that Parliament and the king he served had gone to war, Ormond, since he had more prestige than anyone else, had been left as the representative of the Protestant English government in Dublin. O’Byrne was glad that his friend Orlando had a powerful protector.
“And the Smiths? Young Maurice?”
“They remain in Dublin. They are tolerated, though the city council has become entirely Protestant. Maurice is his father’s trusted partner in the business now. My sister Anne is also well,” he added without further comment.
“I am glad of it,” O’Byrne said.
Father Lawrence was regarding him thoughtfully. He glanced at Jane.
“So, Brian O’Byrne,” he asked quietly, “may I know whose side you are on?”
It had all been so much easier at the start. When he’d accompanied Sir Phelim to Kilkenny, the objective of the Confederation had been clear—to force King Charles to end the persecution of Catholics in Ireland. When the native Irish chiefs from the provinces had joined in, they might not have shared the enthusiasm of the Old English for the king, but they had gone along with the Royalist line for the sake of a strong Confederation. As a result, the Confederation had gained two fine generals with European experience: Owen Roe O’Neill, the returned Irish prince, in the north; and Thomas Preston, an Old English Catholic, in the south.
The Protestant opposition had been far more confused. Lord Ormond, the Old English Protestant grandee, was in Dublin. Up in the north, General Monro led ten thousand ardent Scots who had crossed the water to aid their Presbyterian brethren in Ulster. Yet down in Munster, the Protestant forces were led by Lord Inchiquin, a native Irish prince descended from Brian Boru himself, but who had taken the Protestant faith and who personally hated the Church of Rome.
At first, the Confederation had done well, and Lord Ormond had gladly agreed to a truce. In England, meanwhile, King Charles, having gone to war with his Parliament, had also appeared to be winning. Even in Scotland, a Royalist group had emerged.
Those had been good days for O’Byrne. Sir Phelim had favoured him; his wife had given him a child.
But then things had begun to fall apart. Across the water, the Covenanters crushed the Royalists in Scotland; and in England, new Parliamentary generals, Fairfax and Oliver Cromwell, had emerged and smashed the king’s armies. This year, Charles had been forced to surrender and was now held a prisoner by the Scots. The Royalist cause seemed to be finished.
Or was it?
“Kings have their uses, even captured ones,” Sir Phelim liked to say. And now that King Charles was a captive, it seemed there was more to bargain about than ever. The Scots were ready to put him back on his throne—so long as he took the oath to their Presbyterian Covenant. The English Parliament was prepared to do the same—so long as he let them control him. The Catholic Confederacy in Ireland would sign a peace so that Charles could use Ormond’s army in England—why, they’d even come to England to help him themselves—if he’d give Catholic Ireland its rights. As for Charles himself, he had no wish to oblige any of them; but he was playing for time, in the hope that if he could divide his enemies, he could still climb back on his throne.
But here in Ireland, there was now a problem of a different kind. The Confederation had been successful. Ormond and Inchiquin were both pinned down, and Owen Roe O’Neill, the dashing Irish prince, had scored a stunning victory over Monro and his Scots up in Ulster.
“Now is our chance,” O’Byrne had told his wife, “to sweep down upon Dublin and take it. Then we could probably drive the Protestants out of the strongholds of Ulster.”
But nothing had happened.
Partly the problem was the vanity of generals: Irish O’Neill and Old English Preston refused to take orders from each other. They could hardly even be persuaded to act together. But behind this lay a deeper rift, in the heart of the Confederation. The Old English still wanted to drive a tough bargain with King Charles. “Better him than a Presbyterian Parliament,” they said. And Sir Phelim had taken this view. O’Neill and his Irish friends were more radical. “Let’s kick the Protestants out once and for all, and their king too, and run Ireland ourselves,” they declared.
Dashing Owen Roe O’Neill: an Irishman after his own heart. Brian O’Byrne knew where his secret sympathies lay. For six weeks now, he had been planning to desert Sir Phelim and attach himself to Owen Roe O’Neill.
But it was Jane O’Byrne who answered Father Lawrence.
“We are with Sir Phelim, of course.”
O’Byrne said nothing. Father Lawrence smiled.
“You are loyal to your family. But there is a higher authority than the family. I mean Holy Church.”
“Not everyone agrees with the Nuncio,” Jane remarked.
“He is harsh,” Father Lawrence acknowledged. “But unfortunately, he is also right.”
Archbishop Rinuccini had not been in Ireland long before his clear Latin mind saw the weak logic of the Old English position. “For a start,” he pointed out, “King Charles is a heretic whom nobody trusts. Secondly, he is never going to give you what you want.”
Since its formation, the Confederation had evolved quite an impressive list of demands that included not only the freedom to practise the Catholic religion, and equal legal status, but the return of many Catholic lands. They also wanted the Irish Parliament to be independent. In effect, Charles would be king of a separate country. “We know we won’t get all we want,” the Old English party told the Nuncio.
“You won’t get any of it,” he’d replied. “King Charles would like to use Irish troops against his enemies. But he can’t grant your Catholic freedom, because his own Protestant Parliament will never let him. Your entire position rests upon a fallacy.” Yet since a Protestant Parliament would give them even less than the king, they countered, what were they to do? “Sever your connection with England,” he told them. “You’ve no alternative.” And who would protect them from England after that? they had demanded. For the English Parliament would always see an independent Catholic Ireland as a threat. “You will defend yourselves,” he ordered. “But help will be forthcoming. From France, or from Spain. From Rome itself.”
They were the Old English of Ireland, they reminded him. Their families had been loyal to the English monarchy for centuries. “This is hard for us.”
“If you are Catholics,” the Nuncio had replied, “your faith will come first.”
Now, backed by Owen Roe O’Neill, the Nuncio had taken over the Supreme Council. He was even threatening to excommunicate anyone who opposed his uncompromising view. The Old English, and Irish moderates like Sir Phelim, were still refusing to go along with him. The Confederation was split.
“And what does he want in the end?” Jane demanded. “Are we to drive every Protestant out of Ireland?”
“The Protestants of Ireland are a mixed group,” the Jesuit replied. “There are men like my cousin Doyle, who has no strong religious feelings, and who would probably change back to Catholicism as easily as his father turned Protestant. There are the planters, some of them strongly Protestant. At the end of the day, they are adventurers. They’ll either grin and bear it, or they’ll sell up and leave. As for the government men at Dublin Castle, they are the most strident.” He smiled. “But my guess is they’d run like rabbits.” He paused. “The real problem is elsewhere.”
“You mean Ulster.”
“I do indeed. The Scots. They are another matter entirely. Look at the mighty Covenant they made in Scotland. They are implacable for their faith. They would not tolerate an English Prayer Book; they will surely never tolerate a Catholic government. The others will crumble, but the Presbyterians of Ulster will not.”
“We’ll have to drive them out, then?”
“I think so.”
“Where would they go?”
“Back to Scotland perhaps. Or to America.”
Father Lawrence left them after that. When he had gone, Jane O’Byrne turned to her husband.
“When I think of all that you owe my kinsman—the friendship and promotion he has given you—I hope you do not think of deserting Sir Phelim.” Her eyes were fixed upon his in a hard stare. She was not afraid of him in the least.
He said nothing. He had always done as he pleased with women before. To be nervous of his wife was a new experience.
Nor did Brian O’Byrne make any move in the weeks that followed. Christmas came, and the month of January. Owen Roe O’Neill had gone to winter quarters anyway, so there was nothing to be done.
It was in the month of February, when he was up at Rathconan, that the news came.
“Lord Ormond has handed Dublin over to the English Parliament. He’s leaving Ireland.” He gave the news to his wife himself.
“But that’s impossible. Ormond is the king’s man.”
“He’s the king’s man still. But he feared he couldn’t hold Dublin. He’s gone to King Charles. They hope to gather more forces and return. Meanwhile, the English Parliament men are sending troops over to strengthen the garrison.”
“The Parliament men have Dublin?” The Puritans?
Sir Phelim and the Old English, it seemed, had miscalculated.
Jane O’Byrne looked at her husband with a new uncertainty in her eyes.
“So what will become of us now?”
As Doctor Pincher considered the world in the Year of Our Lord 1647, he knew that God’s Providence alone had allowed him to live so long, and he was grateful. When Dublin was handed over to the English Parliament, he was seventy-five, and one of the oldest men in the city. Considering his age, his health was good. Perhaps, he thought with some secret pride, I shall outlive them all. He was determined, at least, to live to see the Protestant cause triumph.
And to see his nephew well settled.
Soon after the start of the war between King Charles and his Parliament, Barnaby Budge had written to say that he had taken up arms against the king and joined the Roundheads, as the Parliamentary army was nicknamed. Some time later, Barnaby had written to tell him about the new force that was being formed—a model army filled with godly men, ready to train themselves to new heights of discipline. Led by their generals, Fairfax and Oliver Cromwell, this New Model Army had soon swept all before it. Subsequent letters had described their military actions, and Doctor Pincher had experienced elation and also some fear.
“I pray that God may deliver my nephew to us safely,” he confessed more than once to Tidy’s wife, to which she had comfortingly replied, “Oh, Sir, I’m sure He will.”
During that year of 1647, the signs were certainly encouraging. Parliament sent battle-hardened troops and seasoned commanders to Dublin. The Confederate forces in Leinster and Munster were now driven back; and when Owen Roe O’Neill made a move towards Dublin, he was soon chased away. Equally gratifying, the Protestant city authorities had made life so unpleasant for them that several prominent Catholic merchant families, including that of Walter Smith, decided to leave. Pincher chanced to meet Smith on the day of his departure, and asked him where he proposed to live now.
“With my brother-in-law Orlando Walsh,” Walter replied. Though Ormond’s Protestant troops at the Walsh estate were under the control of the Parliament men in Dublin now, the arrangements protecting Orlando had still been continued. “At least your Protestant troops will protect us,” the merchant remarked wryly.
Only one development caused Doctor Pincher concern. It was something which he would never have foreseen, and it took place in England. It worried him so much that he wrote to Barnaby about it.
“The army,” he began, “seems to forget that it is the servant of government, not the master.”
There was no question that Doctor Pincher was right. The Puritan army, having fought their way to victory, had grown impatient with the Presbyterian gentlemen of the English Parliament, who sat in comfort and were still trying to strike a deal with the fallen king. “Put him on trial,” they demanded. They had swept into London and overawed the citizens; and Oliver Cromwell had sent one of his most trusted young officers, Joyce, to grab the king and transfer him to army custody. If King Charles in prison was still nominally king, and Parliament still sat, it was the army which was really taking charge.
But what shocked Pincher were some of their other views.
If King Charles’s Church, with its bishops and its ceremonies, seemed no better than papism to most Puritans, one might argue about what should replace it. But one thing was certain: there must be order. The gentlemen in Parliament and the solid London merchants now favoured an English version of the Presbyterian Church. Instead of clergymen, each congregation would choose its elders, and they in turn would elect a central council, whose authority would be absolute. This would be the new, national Church.
But while they had been risking their lives together, turning the world upside down, the army men had been discussing such matters, too, and they had come to quite different conclusions. They had had enough of the Parliament men. If they could fight the authority of an anointed king, why should they bend the knee to Parliament? “By what authority,” they demanded, “would a Parliament tell us how to worship God? God speaks to every man directly.” So long as they were godly and not papist, the congregations should be free to follow their own consciences and set up independent chapels in any manner they liked.
Such doctrines were infectious. Pincher discovered it one morning when he encountered Faithful Tidy. He had been a little disappointed that since leaving Trinity College, the young man had scarcely ever come to see him; but as Faithful was now assisting the Chapter Clerk, they met from time to time. The Parliament men in London had already made clear that they intended to legislate a Presbyterian Church for Ireland, too, and Pincher was glad to hear it. For if those army fellows were given their way, he remarked to Faithful, there’d be chaos—a breakdown of all religious and moral order.
“Yet when you think of it,” Faithful had answered easily, “isn’t that just what the Catholics said when the Protestants challenged Rome’s authority?” He shrugged. “What’s the difference?”
Pincher stared at him in stupefaction.
“The difference, young man,” he thundered, “is that we are right.”
Since leaving Trinity, Pincher thought, young Faithful was getting impertinent. But Pincher was profoundly shocked that he should even think such a thing.
Some of the civil ideas of the army men were just as bad. One group of these insolent fellows had started a new and hideous argument. According to them, all men were equal. Levellers, these villains called themselves. Their ideas varied, but they wanted all men to have the right to choose their government, and some of the most extreme were even questioning the right of men to own private property. So appalled was Doctor Pincher by what he heard that he even wrote to Barnaby about it.
“These Levellers,” his nephew wrote back, “are dangerous and ungodly men.” They would be dealt with, Barnaby assured him, in due course. But every report reaching Dublin suggested that the number of Levellers was increasing.
And if Doctor Pincher was alarmed by the radical spirit of the Roundhead army, he was not alone. All over Britain, as that year progressed, people were beginning to ask: did these soldiers recognise no authority but their own? Was power only to be maintained by the sword? “Are we to exchange King Charles’s tyranny for an even worse one?” In Scotland especially, the Presbyterians looked at the army’s religious independence and did not like what they saw.
In Dublin, Doctor Pincher spent an uncomfortable winter, afflicted with chilblains. The spring of 1648 came, but still he felt depressed.
And then an astounding series of events occurred. All over England, people started rising for the king—not because they liked him, which they didn’t, but because they had no wish to be ruled by the army. Even some of the ships of the royal navy mutinied. In Scotland, one of the great lords was gathering a Royalist army. Lord Ormond, with the help of the queen, who was in Paris, and King Charles’s son, a gangling but cunning youth also called Charles, had agents active in Ireland. For the Catholic Confederation, Lord Inchiquin now declared firmly that he was for the king. Within a month the Supreme Council had met, voted out the Nuncio, and declared for King Charles also. Only Owen Roe O’Neill held out. It seemed that the Civil War was about to be fought all over again.
So distressed was poor Doctor Pincher that twice in one week he took to his bed, to be ministered to by Tidy’s wife, who brought him healing broth.
Only a letter from Barnaby gave him any comfort.
I am with General Cromwell now. He is not only our finest commander, but a wise, kindly and godly man. He is strong in the Lord. And he will deal firmly with the Royalists and the levellers alike, I promise you.
Though he had heard a good deal of this rising general, Pincher had not been especially impressed. The man sounded solid enough. A Member of Parliament who had turned soldier, Cromwell had inherited large estates and was a wealthy man in his own right. As a rich squire, Cromwell would have no patience with the social ideas of the Levellers. But his religious ideas were less clear. He had grown so close to his men that Pincher was not sure he was a Presbyterian at all. Certainly, he’d lent his name to one pamphlet which had argued for religious independence. Pincher had read it with disgust.
As the weeks went by, however, Cromwell’s generalship could not be disputed. As the main Parliamentary forces ground down the Royalist risings on the eastern side of England, Cromwell stormed up the west, from Wales to Scotland, and every opponent he met was smashed by the iron hammer of his battle-hardened troops. By autumn, it was all over. The Roundhead army had won.
And now the army had had enough. Sweeping down into London and finding a large part of the Presbyterian Parliament men still trying to negotiate with King Charles, they kicked them out and announced: “We’ll try King Charles after Christmas.”
In January 1649, the trial took place. At the end of the month, they executed him. In the weeks that followed, the monarchy and the hereditary House of Lords were abolished, a Council of State was chosen, and England was declared a Commonwealth.
It was an extraordinary business. To execute a king, with all the forms of legality: such a thing had never been done before. The world was turned upside down, and Pincher was not at all sure he liked it. But he also noticed before long that Cromwell, who increasingly dominated the Council, was taking quite a conservative line. He’d even been reluctant to execute the king, according to Barnaby. Sound Presbyterian gentlemen were being brought back into the Parliament; the army radicals were being quietly ignored. Having given them the head of the king, Cromwell was returning England to a state of normalcy. Perhaps, Pincher dared to hope, Cromwell could provide a godly order in Ireland, too.
For at Easter that year came the letter from Barnaby that Doctor Pincher had been living for.
Cromwell is to come to Ireland. He will come this summer. And I shall be coming with him.
Several parties of men had arrived at the camp that day. From his position on the slope, O’Byrne observed the small group of horsemen as they came up the track below, but he paid them no special attention.
The August sun was hot on his face. It was midafternoon. In the distance lay the walls and steeples of Dublin. To the right, clearly visible through the slight haze, he could see the soft blue waters of Dublin Bay. Here on the slopes of Rathmines, a few miles south of the capital, thousands of men were waiting, just as they had waited all day before. They were waiting for Cromwell. O’Byrne turned to the young soldier standing beside him.
“Go and see who those men were that just arrived,” he said. He didn’t really care, but the youth had been getting restive and it would give him something to do.
The armies waiting to confront Oliver Cromwell as he sailed to Ireland were a strange collection. For a start, they were partly Protestant. Overall command was in the hands of Protestant Lord Ormond, who had returned to the island now on behalf of the late king’s son. The troops he had gathered at Rathmines today contained a large number of Old English Catholics, but many Protestants also. Also in the Royalist coalition, Lord Inchiquin the Irish Protestant had added his forces from Munster. And up in eastern Ulster, the coalition had been joined by an army of Ulster Scots who, as Presbyterians, had declared themselves the enemies of the religious independents of Cromwell’s army. Only the main army of native Irish had failed to join the coalition, because Owen Roe O’Neill was still holding out, in splendid isolation, in western Ulster. Altogether, Lord Ormond had over fourteen thousand men.
And the coalition was formidable. They had already boxed in Owen Roe O’Neill up in Ulster. The Parliamentary garrison in Dublin was now pinned down again. And Lord Inchiquin had surprised everyone by sweeping up from the south and taking over the fortified port of Drogheda, the gateway to Ulster, and then nearly all the Ulster strongholds except Derry. Just recently, a squadron of Royalist ships had come to Ireland’s southern coast, where, together with the local privateers, they hoped to harass Cromwell’s fleet.
Ormond had chosen his position well. If Cromwell landed in the south, Ormond blocked his path to Dublin. If Cromwell’s fleet sailed into Dublin Bay, their ships would be in range of the artillery that Ormond had placed on the coast nearby.
Yet as Brian O’Byrne gazed down at the camp on the slopes below him, he had only one question to ask himself: why was he here?
He scarcely knew. His wife and son were with her family, in the relative safety of Ulster for the moment. He’d been up at Rathconan only days ago, and wished he were back up there now, skulking and trying to stay out of trouble. There was nothing fine about war: he’d seen enough to know that. If he had to fight, he’d sooner have been with Owen Roe O’Neill. But he’d made too many commitments to the Confederates and his wife’s relations now. He must fight with them, even if his heart wasn’t in it.
Nor was the reluctance only on his side. For the greatest opposition to the coming of Cromwell to Ireland had already come from another quarter entirely: Cromwell’s own troops.
It was the Leveller element, of course. But this was just a matter of radical individuals: whole companies, entire regiments of his iron-willed model army, had refused to serve in Ireland. Cromwell had threatened, he had cajoled, but his faithful English soldiers would not come. They had refused for several reasons. Some had demanded their back pay; others wanted political reforms in England. But the most powerful argument advanced, which came from soldiers in all ranks, was the most astounding.
“A man’s religion is a matter of personal conscience,” they said. “Why should we force the Irish to be Protestants?”
Nobody had ever heard such an argument before. Rulers, from personal cynicism or for political reasons, might sometimes tolerate other religions within their realm—though, of course, a Catholic king would know that his Protestant subjects were bound for hellfire, just as the Protestant communities knew the same about the Catholics. But no political body, since the days when the Roman Empire had made Christianity the state religion, had ever supposed that a man’s church could be a purely private matter, of no business to anyone but himself. The idea was shocking both in its novelty and its blinding simplicity. And even to a sympathetic army general like Cromwell—who was disposed to allow that the Protestant revelation might be celebrated in different ways by the congregations— to suggest that the great evil of Catholicism could be treated as if it were just another godly sect, and that the great divide between Catholic and Protestant could be ignored, was anathema.
But although Cromwell and his fellow generals had moved swiftly to crush the Leveller mutinies, he was still obliged to allow numerous companies of English soldiers to go home, because they could not see why the Irish should be forced to be Protestants.
And as O’Byrne gazed sadly at the encampment below, and considered the blood that had been shed during even his own short life in religion’s cause, he shook his head and allowed himself to wonder whether, perhaps, those heretic English mutineers might even have had a point.
The young fellow he had sent to check on the new arrivals came riding back.
“A party from Fingal came to join us. All Catholics. I heard one was a Dublin man named Smith.”
“Smith?” O’Byrne’s face creased into a smile. “Did you say Smith?” His sadness was forgotten. “It’s young Mwirish,” he cried happily, and began to ride down the slope.
So he was greatly surprised, having ridden through the camp, to find himself face-to-face not with Maurice at all, but his father.
Something had happened to Walter Smith. He had changed. Not to look at. He was still the same stout family man with balding grey hair that he had been before. But something had happened to him, and he was changed within. That was how it seemed to O’Byrne as they sat by the campfire that evening.
The merchant had not been especially pleased to see O’Byrne, though he must have known that the Irishman might be in Ormond’s camp. He appeared to accept O’Byrne’s presence as another fact of nature, like the weather, in an existence which, after a lifetime of seeking order, he had now ceased trying to control. And so when, out of courtesy, O’Byrne had invited him to eat at his tent that evening, Walter had nodded briefly and answered: “As you wish.” So now, as they ate, O’Byrne gave him a good account of the military state of affairs, the strength of the various parts of Ormond’s forces, and the likely tactics if they engaged Cromwell’s army.
That afternoon, Ormond had decided to place a forward battery right down at the mouth of the Liffey. But the battery would be dangerously close to the Dublin defenders, and as dusk fell, he prepared to send a large contingent, some fifteen hundred men, to secure the position first, under cover of darkness.
“It’s an excellent move,” O’Byrne told Walter, as they saw the men gathering to leave. “A battery there could wreak horrible damage on Cromwell’s ships if he tries to sail into Dublin.”
For his part, O’Byrne was eager to learn the latest news of his friend Orlando, of young Maurice, and of the household in Fingal where the Smith family was still living. Walter confirmed that young Maurice was now running the family’s business affairs, although trading was not easy. He was often impatient, and had wanted to come and fight with Ormond; only the fact that the family needed him had kept him at home. Anne was well, but suffered from a stiffness in her joints. The person who had been most ill at ease, it soon became clear, was Walter himself.
O’Byrne could imagine it. Walter did not say so in so many words, for neither of them wished to refer to the matter that lay between them, but O’Byrne could imagine it all too well.
The barn, the outbuildings, the house itself, all filled with Protestant soldiers. That would have been bad enough. But to be crammed in close, as a permanent guest in his brother-in-law’s house—no matter how much Walter and Orlando liked each other—must have increased the strain. And then, to be sharing rooms each day with a family that included the simple boy, Daniel, the ever-living reminder to all of them—except Maurice, who knew nothing—of his humiliation . . . For myself, thought O’Byrne, I couldn’t have borne it.
But borne it Walter had, month after month, because he was a good and decent man; until at last, having done all he could for them and knowing that the coming of Cromwell was the one mighty threat to all their lives, he had taken his decision. Putting his wife in Maurice’s charge at the Walsh estate, and telling them that he was going on business into Connacht, he had quietly ridden down to take up arms, for the first time in his life, as a soldier in the army of Ormond. And so this solid, peaceable family man, well past his sixtieth year, had walked secretly out of his family’s lives, and in some strange way he seemed to be free. I wonder, thought O’Byrne, if he means to return?
And as he listened to the merchant, and reflected upon the innate decency of the man, and the fact that it was he himself who had brought all this misery upon Smith, O’Byrne, besides feeling guilt and shame for what he had done with Anne, found himself suddenly struck by the realization, quite common in those who have played the game of adultery, that they have more affection and respect for the husband they have wronged than for the wife they stole.
How strange, O’Byrne considered, as he poured them both more wine, that this fellow, who has none of our looks—those had gone to Maurice—is nonetheless my kinsman, more Irish than English. And he’s come to fight at my side, though God knows whether he knows how to use a sword. He’ll be butchered, of course, when the fighting begins. But that is his choice. He drank his wine and fell a little quiet.
And perhaps he had drunk too much, but later that night, when the fire had burned down to glowing embers, and Smith rose to depart to his own tent, O’Byrne suddenly took him by the arm and softly cried, “Don’t seek your death here. There is no need.” And as the merchant slowly shook his head: “You’re a far better man than I am, Walter Smith. You’re worth ten of me.”
But the merchant did not reply, and walked away in the darkness.
Since he awoke at dawn, and was higher up the slope, O’Byrne was one of the first to notice. For a short time he imagined that they had concealed themselves; but as the sun began to rise, and his keen eyes scanned the coastal position selected for the cannon, he became increasingly alarmed. The troops who had left during the night were not there, nor anywhere else that he could see. Fifteen hundred men had disappeared.
News spread through the camp. Soon people were staring out, eyes against the sun. Where were the troops? Had they marched into the secret halls under the mountains, like the shining heroes of Irish legend? Sometime around eight o’clock the answer became clear, as the long column appeared in the distance, making hurriedly for the coast.
“Dear God,” O’Byrne murmured, “the fools got lost in the dark.”
But if O’Byrne could see the Royalist men, so could the garrison in Dublin. The column reached its objective. The sun was well up in the sky. Then he saw what he had feared.
A large column was coming out of Dublin. He could judge the numbers by the dust in the distance. It was almost a mile long. Perhaps five thousand men. Against fifteen hundred troops who’d just spent the night lost in the dark, and who hadn’t had time to entrench their position. They were going to be massacred.
Moments later, Ormond sounded a general attack.
They were moving too quickly. There was no time to lose, but as they moved across the open ground towards the hillock, O’Byrne could see that the forward companies were almost breaking into a run. His own cavalry troop was well trained. He kept them in close formation. But he saw another company breaking into a gallop. They were anxious to save their comrades. But what were their commanders thinking of?
He wondered where Walter Smith was. He hadn’t caught sight of him.
A young officer came up with orders.
“Wheel.” They were to join a concerted charge on the enemy’s right flank. A sensible move, thank God.
During the next minutes, O’Byrne had little time to think. He could no longer see the enemy. There were two waves of cavalry in front of him, thundering forward. The first wave broke upon the enemy line. But the troops from Dublin were in perfect formation, presenting an impregnable wall of pikes. As the second wave crashed, he saw ahead of him a churning mass of fallen horses and men, into which the enemy was pouring musket fire. There was no hope of getting through. Seconds later he was wheeling, streaming along the line, the forest of pikes gleaming horribly on his right, through the acrid smoke. A musket ball hissed past his head. He saw one of his men go down. “Back,” he cried. Time to regroup.
All the rest of the morning the battle continued. The fifteen hundred men who got lost in the night were mostly wiped out. Again and again, Ormond’s men tried to take the enemy positions. Finally, around the middle of the day, the enemy made a lightning advance. Ormond’s men were fighting back, but to left and right, O’Byrne could see them giving ground. Then, suddenly, the lines collapsed. Whole companies were turning to flee. The enemy were harrying them. O’Byrne saw a cavalry regiment racing round the right flank to cut them off. It was going to be a bloodbath. Ormond’s army was going to be destroyed, and there was nothing to be done.
“Save yourselves,” he told his men, and wheeled his horse round.
Some way off, he could see open ground. From there, tracks led westward. If he could work his way to reach the open ground, he might be able to get away. From there he should be able to travel south, then up to Rathconan. It was worth a try. He started off.
Men were fleeing across his path. He encountered two skirmishes but rode swiftly round them. It seemed to him that he might be getting clear. He had gone about half a mile when he saw Walter Smith. He was held at bay in front of a stand of trees by three enemy horsemen. The first was upon him, hacking at his leg. A red gash appeared on Walter’s thigh. The merchant had drawn his sword, flailing wildly, but in another few moments they would have him down.
Just then, by some miracle, he caught his assailant in the face and the man fell back, howling. But the other two were racing up. It would be all over for Walter Smith.
O’Byrne let out a shout and spurred his horse forward. The men saw, and one of them veered round to meet him. O’Byrne drew his sword and they came together. He could not look out for Smith now, as they parried and thrust. The Englishman was skilful. For a moment, O’Byrne thought he might lose. But by the grace of God, the fellow’s horse missed his footing, the man’s head jerked back, and O’Byrne caught him with a thrust to the neck that split his windpipe open.
As the Englishman fell, O’Byrne saw Walter. Amazingly, the merchant was still there. The remaining horseman, distracted by the fight between his comrade and O’Byrne, had not yet struck him down. Now the Englishman hesitated. Walter came at him, brandishing his sword. O’Byrne made straight for him, hoping to reach him first. The fellow thought better of it and fled.
“Come.” O’Byrne was beside Walter now, taking his arm. “We must go.” He nodded at Walter’s leg. “You’re wounded.”
Walter Smith stared. In the heat of the battle, he had hardly noticed the wound in his leg, which was bleeding considerably. He was flushed.
“We beat them.”
“We did.” O’Byrne smiled. Does the man realise that I’ve just saved his life? he wondered. Apparently not. “We must get away now, though,” he said kindly. But to his amazement, Smith shook his head.
“We cannot leave the field of battle.” He said it with a stubborn determination.
O’Byrne gazed at him, then grinned.
“You’re too brave for me.” He chuckled. “But we’re obliged to go, you know. It’s orders. The retreat has been sounded.”
“Oh.” Smith looked confused, but allowed himself to be led.
It took them an hour, skirting the remains of the battle. O’Byrne didn’t say so to Smith, but it was obvious that the broken forces of Ormond were being caught piecemeal and butchered. He wondered how many would be left at the end of the day. After a couple of miles, with the battle behind them, O’Byrne thought it was safe to stop a few minutes so that he could look at Walter’s leg. Fortunately, the wound was not deep, but Walter had lost a good deal of blood. O’Byrne tore a strip off his shirt and bound the leg tightly.
It was late afternoon as they began to go up the track that led to Rathconan. Walter by now had grown pale and quiet, but O’Byrne wasn’t too concerned about him. The merchant might not be much of a soldier, but he was surprisingly strong. When they reached the house, they found the old priest, who was still in residence, and a couple of the serving women. They carefully bathed Walter’s wound and bandaged it. He seemed grateful, and well enough to eat the evening meal with them.
“We have to hope that Cromwell doesn’t come here for a few days,” O’Byrne remarked.
“What will you do now?” the priest asked him.
“I hardly know,” O’Byrne answered. “It will depend upon the military situation.” He did not add what he was sure of—that there was nothing, now, between Cromwell and Dublin.
After the meal, they helped Walter up to the chamber, where they put him in the bed which once O’Byrne and Anne had occupied. He lay there, gazing around him.
“It’s a fine place, Rathconan,” he said sleepily.
“It is. And your own home, too,” O’Byrne reminded him. “For you’re still an O’Byrne.”
“I know.” Smith nodded and closed his eyes.
O’Byrne waited a moment, then, thinking the merchant had fallen asleep, turned to go.
“We fought bravely today, didn’t we?” Walter murmured, his eyes still closed.
“We did,” said Brian O’Byrne. “You fought like a lion.” And seeing the merchant smile, he bent down and kissed him.
That night, he slept deeply and awoke long after the sun had risen.
Going to the chamber where he had left Walter Smith the night before, he was surprised not to find him there, and still more to discover, after searching the house and stable, that both Walter and his horse had vanished.
Doctor Pincher was now in his seventy-seventh year, but he hadn’t been so excited since he was a boy. For Barnaby Budge had arrived, and they were to meet today.
Doctor Pincher had been greatly pleased that, even while Cromwell’s fleet was disembarking, Barnaby had courteously sent him a message by a soldier to ask where and at what time it would please his uncle to receive him. Doctor Pincher had already given much thought to the manner of their meeting. He had hoped to find an excuse to arrange it within the hallowed precincts of Trinity College, so that his nephew should first see him in those august surroundings rather than his more humble lodgings. The matter was solved by the soldier, who informed him that General Cromwell himself was to be taken in a carriage to College Green, where he would address the people of Dublin.
“I shall be there to receive General Cromwell,” the doctor told him. “Let Captain Budge,” for so he now learned Barnaby was styled, “walk into the college beside the green afterwards, and he shall find me.”
It couldn’t have been better. A speech from Cromwell, whom Parliament, besides giving him military command, had also designated with the title of Lord Lieutenant of Ireland. Then one of his brave officers and the distinguished Trinity professor would have a public family reunion. It would do honour to the family. Within the hour, he had made sure that several of the lecturers, a selection of the best young scholars, and even the Tidy family would be there to witness the event. So pleased was he that, in the privacy of his lodgings, Doctor Pincher actually hugged himself.
The arrival of Oliver Cromwell and his Roundhead army in Ireland was an impressive business. A hundred and thirty ships came into the Liffey estuary and began to disembark their troops: eight thousand foot soldiers, three thousand ordinary horse, twelve hundred dragoons. There were also the several thousand English troops already in the Dublin garrison. These numbers, though large, were not awesome, but they belonged to what was probably the best fighting force in Europe. The ships also brought quantities of artillery, and last but not least, the sum of seventy thousand pounds to pay for any supplies they might need.
Against them would be arrayed a coalition of forces. Ormond’s army had been shattered at Rathmines. Four thousand men had been killed, and another two and a half thousand taken prisoner. Others had melted away to their homes. Ormond still had about three thousand men, however, camped on the edge of the Midlands. There were also the Royalist forces down in Munster, and the town garrisons in every province—some of them protected by mighty walls. But the coming of Cromwell had also provoked one other important figure.
Owen Roe O’Neill might be proud, but faced with the arrival of Cromwell himself, he had finally agreed: “We must forget our differences and combine the Confederates again.” The papal Nuncio might have been furious, but the Irish prince was now rejoining the Royalist cause. He was sick with a gangrenous leg, but he had five thousand men with him and could call on as many again.
The numbers were with the Royalists. In addition to that, neither the native Irish, nor the Old English in the countryside, nor the Presbyterian Scots of Ulster had any wish to see him there. Cromwell was entering hostile territory.
It was while his army was being received by the Dublin garrison that Oliver Cromwell was taken by carriage to College Green.
The day had started badly for the Tidy family. Perhaps it was Tidy’s fault.
The two Roundhead officers who arrived at Christ Church that morning were looking for quarters where troops could be billeted. Considering all that Tidy’s wife had done to house the Protestant refugees eight years before, it was not surprising that they should have come to the cathedral precincts.
But they did not understand about the bell.
There was no question, old Tidy had given it his best. Hour after hour, as Cromwell’s fleet came into the Liffey, the great bell of Christ Church had tolled its Protestant welcome. For seven whole hours the old sexton had pulled on the bellrope, only letting his son take a short stint each hour while he drank a tankard of ale to revive him, and attended to the calls of nature. And it had been his intention to ring the bell again today, to mark the entrance of Cromwell into Dublin.
So delighted had he been with these efforts that he had not hesitated, as perhaps he should have done, when he saw the two officers, but presented them with a bill for the princely sum of forty shillings. This had not been well received. Indeed, blunt words had been spoken by the officers when, not knowing the custom of the place, they had refused to pay. The sexton having then informed them that they’d be quartering no troops in the precincts of Christ Church, the larger officer, who seemed to be under the impression that this was a papist church, had remarked: “General Cromwell will quarter his horses in this cathedral if he pleases.” To which Tidy had riposted that the general might put his horses in the nave of Saint Patrick’s, but not Christ Church. They had parted on no good terms, despite the efforts of Tidy’s wife and Faithful to reassure the officers of their loyal intentions.
It was not a happy Tidy family that walked, while no bell tolled, to listen to Oliver Cromwell.
The crowd at College Green was impressive. The aldermen and city councillors were all there; the great men of Trinity College, old Doctor Pincher easily visible among them; the city’s Protestant parish clergy, still a small and unimpressive collection; and a large gathering of citizens. They all watched with interest as, with a cavalry escort, the general arrived in a simple open carriage.
When the carriage stopped, Cromwell did not leave it. He took off his hat and stood up. He was a strongly built, soldierly man, an inch or two under six feet. His greying hair was parted in the centre and hung to his shoulders. His face was not ugly, but plain, and seemed to have warts on one side. When he spoke, his voice was rough and his manner blunt. And the message which Oliver Cromwell now delivered to the people of Ireland was plain and brief.
He had been brought there by Almighty God, he told them, to restore them to liberty. Those who, recognising God’s Providence, were amongst the godly—by which he meant any good Protestant—could be assured that the barbarous and bloodthirsty Irish would be subdued, and that the Parliament of England would protect them. Those who opposed the authority of the Parliament with arms would be crushed. Let there be no doubt of that.
But let them also understand, he continued, that he had no desire to hurt tender consciences. Those who were well-affected need not fear. The watchword of the army of God was justice: punishment for those who were guilty of shedding innocent blood, but for the rest, gentleness. Virtue and order should be their guide.
“Civil liberties for peaceful people,” he announced.
Then he sat down, put on his hat, and was driven away.
Doctor Pincher frowned. This was not what he had expected at all.
The message was carefully calculated. That was to be expected. And the tactical situation in which Cromwell found himself was well understood. He was a general. He had come to Ireland to protect the Parliamentary forces’ western flank. Those opposing the authority of Parliament with arms—in other words, the Royalist forces—would be crushed. This was clear. Of course.
Those who had shed innocent blood would be brought to justice. Did he mean the Irish bands who had run riot when Sir Phelim and Lord Maguire had begun the rebellion in 1641? Presumably. The memory of those massacres, and the refugees coming into Dublin, was still fresh, though identifying the remaining culprits now would not be easy.
But what was this talk of “tender consciences”? The phrase was a code, well known to every listener. It meant those of another faith. If those with tender consciences were “well-affected,” the general had announced, they had nothing to fear. The political language was unmistakable. The hint to the townsmen gathered on College Green was clear. As far as this blunt English general was concerned, respectable Catholic merchants like the Smiths of Dublin, if they gave him no trouble, could be left alone. It sounded suspiciously as if Cromwell might even let them continue to worship if they did so discreetly and out of sight. Doctor Pincher was appalled.
Was this the general of the army of God? Were the Catholics not even to be forced to convert? Were they not to be dispossessed? Pincher had been waiting for this all his life. Perhaps this speech was just a tactic to keep the Catholics quiet until they could be properly dealt with. He hoped so. But another possibility also occurred to him: could it be that General Cromwell, beyond smashing the Royalists and punishing the guilty, had no plan for Ireland at all? Pincher glanced around the crowd. Everywhere, people were looking at each other with surprise.
It was in some confusion, and with disquiet in his soul, that Pincher prepared for the meeting with his nephew.
By the time that the Tidy family had entered the sanctuary of Trinity College, Pincher had already set the scene. He himself was standing alone, black-gowned and erect, looking towards the gateway where a group of students was watching. By a doorway on the right, several of his fellow lecturers had gathered, waiting to be introduced. The Tidys stood just inside the gateway.
Through which, moments later, a large figure, dressed in the leathers of a Roundhead officer, strode with a heavy tread. He saw Doctor Pincher at once and made straight towards him. And Tidy groaned.
“God’s blood,” he muttered. It was the officer with whom he’d quarrelled that morning.
Doctor Pincher stared. The figure coming towards him was tall, but there all family resemblance ended.
Barnaby Budge was burly. His chest was broad, his big breeches clearly housed legs like tree trunks, his leather riding boots were huge. But it was the sight of his face that transfixed the doctor.
Barnaby Budge’s face was large and flat. It made Doctor Pincher think of a saddle of mutton. Was it really possible that this brutish fellow lumbering towards him was really his sister’s son?
“Doctor Pincher? I am Barnaby.”
The doctor inclined his head. Words would come, no doubt, but at that moment he could think of none. Meanwhile, he realised that the big soldier was studying his physiognomy with interest. Then Pincher heard him mutter to himself: “My mother was wrong.”
“Wrong? How so?” Pincher asked sharply.
Barnaby looked surprised, then embarrassed. He had not imagined that his uncle’s hearing, at such an advanced age, would be so keen.
“I see, Sir,” he answered heavily but truthfully, “that you are not ill-looking at all.”
Pincher gazed.
“Come, Nephew,” he said quietly, with a glance towards where the lecturers of Trinity College were watching, “let us discuss family matters at my lodgings.” And giving the Tidys not even a nod, he passed stiffly out through the college gateway with Barnaby striding at his shoulder.
Once at his lodgings, it did not take long to dispose of the necessary family enquiries. The doctor learned that Barnaby had been solidly set up in the drapery trade before joining the army of Cromwell, that he had inherited a little property and a good house. He spoke dutifully of his mother but, it seemed to Pincher, without much affection. He also spoke of the matter of his investment in Ireland.
“I have come here to do the work of the Lord, Uncle, and I am owed five hundred pounds.”
“Quite so,” said Doctor Pincher.
For seven years, he explained, the five hundred pounds he had contributed to the Parliamentary cause had naturally been much in his mind. And as it was now to be repaid handsomely with confiscated Irish land, he would be glad to hear his uncle’s advice. He looked forward, he told the old man, to settling in Ireland and becoming his friend. “We shall turn this into a godly land, Uncle, I promise you,” he said, and clapped the old man on the back. To all of which Doctor Pincher, who was beginning to wonder if he really wanted this large relation to embarrass his declining years, replied:
“All in good time, Barnaby, when the battle is won.”
Nor did it take Pincher long to take the measure of his nephew’s intellect. Barnaby was not a scholar. Indeed, though familiar with many parts of the scriptures, it did not appear to the doctor that Barnaby had ever read a book in his life. His religious faith, as a solid, God-fearing Protestant, was commendably strong. When asked if he believed he should be saved, he answered firmly: “I serve in the army of God, Sir, and hope to be saved.” But when it came to church membership and Calvin’s understanding of Predestination, Barnaby seemed less certain. “Only God knows, I suppose, whom He has chosen,” he remarked—which, while undoubtedly being true, was not very satisfactory. And probing further, Pincher came to understand, as he had never really done before, how, quite apart from their English dislike of being told what to do by Scottish Presbyterians, the godly men of Cromwell’s army had come to believe that it was their years of fighting fellowship that proved they were of the Elect, rather than belonging to any church. While it pleased Pincher that his nephew should know himself to be chosen of God, it irked him that he should know it for the wrong reason, and he hoped that once peace was established, Barnaby should be led to a better understanding.
He was interested, however, to hear more about the puzzling figure of Cromwell. He quickly learned that his nephew, and the entire army, revered the blunt general.
“He is a godly man,” Barnaby assured him. “If he has a fiery temper, he shows it only in the cause of righteousness.” No man in his regiment, the doctor was glad to hear, could blaspheme or even swear an oath, on pain of punishment. Cromwell had been content with his lot as a country squire and Member of Parliament, according to Barnaby. Only the impossible tyranny of King Charles had forced him into opposition; and only Parliament’s complete inability to bring the business with the king to any conclusion after the war had forced him, with the other army men, to take control. “He had no wish to execute the king,” Barnaby declared. “Only cruel necessity made him do it. He told me so himself.” Though whether this was the agonising of a plain man or the self-justification of a politician, Doctor Pincher did not know. But one other piece of information was encouraging.
“Cromwell is strenuous for the Lord, and he knows that the Catholic priests are the greatest devils of all. Any priests he catches, I can promise you, he will kill.”
Whatever the general said about tender consciences, therefore, it did not seem that the Catholics could hope for much. Pincher was relieved to hear it.
It was when Barnaby spoke about the feelings of the army who marched with Cromwell, however, that his statements became startling.
“We know why we have come, Uncle,” Barnaby assured him. “We have come to punish the barbarous Irish for the massacres. We’ll avenge the rebellion of ’41, I promise you.”
“It was a terrible thing,” Pincher agreed. “I preached to the survivors in Christ Church Cathedral,” he added with some pride.
But Barnaby was scarcely listening.
“I am fully informed, Uncle,” he assured him. “The whole Irish nation rose,” he recited. “They turned upon the Protestants, man, woman, and child, and they butchered them. There was no mercy given, no limit to their Irish cruelty. They killed them all, except the few who got away. Three hundred thousand innocent Protestants died. There has been nothing like it in all the history of Man.”
Doctor Pincher stared at him. The actual loss of life in the rising of 1641 was somewhat uncertain. He believed that when it was all done, perhaps five thousand Protestants lost their lives across the whole of Ireland, though it might well be less. Another thousand or two Catholics had been killed in reprisals. Since then, of course, the figures had swollen in the telling, but Barnaby’s statement was astounding. Pincher wasn’t sure there were even that many Protestants on the island.
“How many?”
“Three hundred thousand,” said Barnaby firmly.
Pincher despised the Irish and hated Catholics, but he was not a dishonest man.
“That number,” he ventured, “may be somewhat high, you know.”
“No, I assure you,” said Barnaby. “It is so. The whole army knows it.”
And now Doctor Pincher understood. The army of Oliver Cromwell, having questioned the need to convert Catholics, had been fortified by these reminders of the atrocities to avenge. And he sighed. Every army, he supposed, has to be told a story. Sometimes the story is true, sometimes not. No doubt, he supposed, this story would serve its necessary purpose.