1828

THERE WAS NOBODY like her father. When he picked her up in his great, strong arms and looked at her with his laughing eyes, she knew there was nobody so brave and strong in all of County Clare.

So when her mother said that she was afraid of what Mr. Callan the agent might do to him, Maureen hardly heard. Father could crush little Mr. Callan with one arm, she thought to herself.

Not many people would have cared to take on Eamonn Madden. Though he was the youngest of the four brothers, he was the largest. They were all proud. “On our father’s side, there are Maddens with fine estates in many parts of Ireland. On our mother’s side, we are the descendants of Brian Boru himself,” her father had told her. “Along with all the other O’Briens, of course,” he allowed. Down in the rich parklands towards Limerick, a lordly O’Brien owned the huge castle and estate of Dromoland; and there were several other O’Briens among the prominent landowners of Clare. His mother’s family might have been only tenant farmers, but they felt themselves, however distantly, to be of the same great descent.

Eamonn was not only large and strong, he could run like a deer. Hurling he loved: he would pluck the ball out of the air and run with it in a single movement that was beautiful to see. “Your father’s a wonderful dancer,” he mother had also told her.

As a very young man, before he married her mother, Eamonn had a dashing reputation for all sorts of devilment. A dozen years ago, when a landlord a few miles away had threatened to evict a widow from her husband’s cottage the very month after his death, a storehouse had been burned and some cattle maimed on his land in the middle of a dark night. A message had been left for the landlord, and the widow had stayed, rent free. Most people believed that Eamonn Madden had led that raid, and it had made him something of a hero in the locality.

Such illicit rough justice had always been part of life in the countryside. Sometimes it might erupt into a local rising, but more often it consisted of isolated incidents. At different times and places, the men who banded together would go by different names, though generally they were known as Ribbonmen, or Whiteboys. But whatever his past, Eamonn Madden did not hold with violence now.

“There are better ways of getting justice than maiming cattle, Maureen,” he would tell her. Although she was only nine, both her parents would share their thoughts with her sometimes, because she was the eldest. “Daniel O’Connell has shown us that.”

O’Connell, the Liberator, the greatest man in Ireland. If her father was a hero, O’Connell was a god. But it was because of O’Connell that her mother was so worried now.

“For this time,” she said, “he’s gone too far. And pray to God, child,” she said to Maureen, “that he doesn’t cost us our house and home, and all that we have.”

If Eamonn and his brothers carried themselves with pride, it wasn’t just because, like many Irish people, they considered themselves to be the descendants of princes. It was above all because, within living memory, the family had occupied a much larger landholding. Three generations ago, their great-grandfather had been the tenant of a substantial farm, though it actually belonged to a landowner who lived in England. Down the generations, this holding had been subdivided amongst sons, some of whom had left. By the last generation, Eamonn’s father had been down to about twenty acres, and now even that had been divided into four. Yet in his own mind, Eamonn felt that he represented, at least, his grandfather’s holding, which some of his older neighbours could still remember. As for the land he rented, he privately considered it as his own.

Maureen loved the countryside of County Clare. From the wide waters of the Shannon estuary in the south, to the strange, stony wilderness of the Burren in the north, Clare had a magic all its own. If down in lower Munster, the mountains of Cork and Kerry caused the prevailing south-westerlies to release huge quantities of rain, here in Clare the Atlantic winds swept in unchecked over low hills and bogland, stony fields and water meadows. Sometimes, on windy days, it seemed to Maureen that the little thorn trees and briars dot-ting their land were so bent by the breeze that they must, at any moment, tear themselves from their roots and fly wildly, like so many witches, towards the island’s interior.

Down by the Shannon, the soil was rich. Here in the centre of the county, around the market town of Ennis, the landscape varied, but the soil was relatively poor. Nonetheless, wheat and oats were grown there, barley and flax. And, of course, the potato.

They might have only a few acres, but her family lived quite well. They kept a cow for milking, a number of pigs, some hens, and a dog. There was also a donkey which pulled her father’s cart. They grew cabbages, mostly, and potatoes.

Her great-grandfather’s sturdy, two-storey farmhouse was still there to be seen; Eamonn’s abode was more modest—a long, single-storey cottage with thick, dry-stone walls and a thatched roof. Like everyone else in the region, they had a turf fire, since turf was plentiful and wood fuel almost nonexistent. And if the wind could seep through the dry-stone walls, it hardly signified, for the climate of Clare was mild. There were three children in the family so far: herself, her younger sister Norah, and her little brother William; though another baby was on the way. They had good linen shirts which their mother had made, woollen dresses and stockings, and sound boots for the winter. So they were comfortable enough.

And they ate well—three times a day, usually. If her father had been to the market, then he might bring back a little meat or fish; there was often some cabbage or other green vegetable; and their staple diet, which kept them all well fed and healthy, was the nutritious potato.

The potato: what a blessing it was. “It’s manna from heaven,” her father always used to say, “America’s gift to Ireland.”

Her father was an intelligent man. He could read and write, and saw to it that she could, too. He liked to know things; he was always curious. And since she was his eldest child, and his son was still only an infant, he liked to talk to her. She knew, therefore, that the potato had been brought from the New World many generations ago; and when she was a little girl, he had explained its properties to her.

“You see these, Maureen?” He had taken a seed potato, from which little white tubers were sprouting like tiny, curling horns. “Very few roots form their own buds, but the potato does. These tubers contain the nourishment for the new shoots that will grow from them. The shoots will form stems with their own roots and leaves, from which will come the new crop of potatoes. So that’s all you need to do: dig up the potatoes, keep some back for seeding, replant the seed potatoes in the spring, and you’ll have a fresh crop in the autumn. And as it happens, Ireland has the perfect climate for them. They like our mild, damp weather.”

“So do the Indians in America eat the potato wherever they find it, growing in the wild?” she asked him once.

“You would think so. But they do not. Left to themselves, the tubers from the seed potato shoot up towards the surface and catch the light. Then the new potatoes grow near the surface, and they’re green and bitter. You wouldn’t want to eat them at all. That’s why we keep the seed potatoes in a dark place, and pile the earth up over them when they are planted.”

Their land lay in stony terrain. But the fields had been cleared and the stones used in dry-stone walls, several feet thick in places. Like his neighbours, Eamonn Madden planted potatoes for an early crop in August, followed by a later crop in October or November. Their nutritional value was unrivalled. With a little butter and milk, a few vegetables or some fish, the potato could produce a race of healthy giants, so long as you ate enough. And the Irish did. When Eamonn Madden was working hard on the land, he’d consume fourteen or fifteen pounds of potato in a day.

Could anything be objected against the potato as a crop?

“It is subject to blight,” Eamonn admitted. There had been numerous potato blights, some quite serious, in recent decades. “But against that, you must consider three things,” he would add. “The first is that the potato produces far more food per acre than anything else. The second, that the blights are usually local, and soon pass. But the third thing, which is sometimes forgotten, is that potato crop failures are less frequent and less severe than the failures of cereals. There is actually less risk, Maureen, in planting a field of potatoes than there is in sowing a field of wheat or oats.”

Her father worked the potato field with his spade, and all the family helped with the harvest. The pigs they kept were partly fed on potato peelings, and provided manure for the fields in turn. Once a year, the family killed a pig for their own consumption, but the rest of the pigs were fattened and sold to market. “That pays the rent,” her father told her. This regime left him many months in the year when he could go and work for others. He would also earn money by carting, travelling quite large distances sometimes.

Sometimes, he would take Maureen with him. Once, they went up to the huge, stony wilderness of the Burren. She had been impressed by its bare loveliness, and quite surprised to see sheep grazing there. “You wouldn’t think they could find enough nourishment here, would you?” her father remarked. “Yet they do, and the herbs they find amongst the rocks give their meat a particularly fine flavour.” They had also visited the mighty cliffs of Moher, and she had gasped at the huge, sheer drop, almost a thousand feet, into the roiling waters of the Atlantic far below. Then, as he held her, he said “Lean forward,” and she had leaned out over the cliff and felt the great rush of air as the Atlantic wind struck the cliffs and came racing up, thrillingly supporting her and pushing her back. “There’s nothing between us and America from here,” he called, “except that churning sea.” She didn’t know why she found this thought so exciting.

“Shall we ever go there?” she called back. It was a natural question. Most of the farming families she knew seemed to have a relation in America. One of Eamonn’s brothers and two of his uncles had gone there with their families. It was the better-off people who went to America. The poor could not afford the fare.

“Why, would you want to leave Clare?” he shouted.

“Never,” she cried.

Another time, they went down to the shores of the Shannon and watched the fishermen going out in their little curraghs made of skins.

“The lands along the Shannon here are known as the corcasses,” Eamonn said. “The blue corcasses, as we call them, are wonderful soil; but the black carcass is so rich that you can get twenty harvests out of it before you have to manure.” He said it with as much pride as if he owned it.

But mostly, he went into the local town of Ennis, taking the cart in early morning and returning at dusk. But whenever he asked her to accompany him there, she tried to find an excuse. She dreaded going into Ennis.

It was not large, but it was a place of some importance. Barges brought goods from the northern inlet of the great Shannon estuary, up the River Fergus to Ennis. It had a cattle market and a courthouse, and you could buy all sorts of things there. Once, she remembered, because it was going cheap, he had bought a load of seaweed there, which had been shipped up from the Shannon estuary. When they got it home, he asked her to help him spread it on the potato field. “It feeds the soil,” he told her. “Down by the coast, they use it instead of manure.”

But it was the road into Ennis that she hated.

There had been landless folk in Ireland for centuries. In a way, they were part of a natural process. When the lands of a chief were subdivided amongst his sons, they soon took over the lands of the larger tenants, forcing them onto smaller holdings. The tenants, in turn, subdivided their holdings, and so on down the scale to the cottager, with his acre or two, and below him, the landless labourer. Even Cromwell, by kicking out a layer of Irish landlords in favour of English ones, had only added one more to the endless waves of displacement down the generations.

It was this process, during the last century, that the nutritious potato had so rapidly accelerated. Since they could afford to remain on the land and subsist on smaller holdings, Eamonn’s father, and his grandfather before that, had married young and produced large families. Eamonn himself had been only twenty when he married, and who knew how many children he might have? Even the poor cottagers with a small patch could survive. As a result, the population of Ireland had hugely grown. It was already over seven million, and still climbing. Ireland was one of the most densely populated countries in Europe. Inevitably, therefore, with so many to feed, the price of food, and of land, was rising. “The landlord can get a higher price for his land, and the richer farmers can pay it. We are fortunate,” Eamonn could tell Maureen, “but some of the poor cottagers can hardly manage their rents.” Those who could not were being forced off the land to subsist, as best they could, as labourers. In the slums of London, or the Liberties of Dublin, the sight of the urban poor was common enough. But now, in the countryside of Ireland, a huge new phenomenon could be seen: the slums of the rural poor.

They began about a mile outside Ennis. Some were shacks with roofs, others nothing more than hovels built into the banks of earth. Some families there were able to rent potato patches just for one growing season at a time; others had not even that. They got what work they could; sometimes there was none. It was the same on each of the roads leading into Ennis. As she passed and saw the hapless faces of the men, and the women and children in rags, Maureen would shudder.

“Could that happen to us?” she had once asked her father when she was five.

“Never,” he answered boldly.

“Can’t we help them?”

“There are too many.” He’d smiled sadly. “I am glad that you wish to, however.”

It had shocked her to hear the tone of quiet defeat in her father’s voice. Until then she had supposed that he could do anything. He knew that, if they went that way together, she would never be quiet unless he gave her some pennies to give to the children as they passed. But, though she never said so, it was the sight of the shantytown that made the little girl shake her head, usually, if he asked her if she wanted to come with him into the town. Last year, however, she had asked a different question. “Can Daniel O’Connell do anything for them?” And at this her father had brightened a little.

“Perhaps.” He had nodded. “If anyone can, it would be O’Connell.”

So it saddened her that now, for the first time she could remember in her life, her parents should be at odds with one another, and that the cause should be Daniel O’Connell.

She had heard him once. Her father had taken her with him; her mother had refused to go. The great man had come from his home in the mountains of Kerry to address a huge audience that had gathered in a field near Limerick. He was standing on a cart. She and her father were well back in the crowd, but they could see him clearly, for he was an even bigger man than Eamonn, with a broad, cheerful face and a mane of wavy brown hair.

He spoke to them in Irish and English—indeed, like many people in that region, he would go easily from one to the other, sometimes mixing the two together. She did not understand all of what he said, but the crowd did, and they roared approval. What she chiefly remembered, however, was not what he said but the wonderful, musical sound of his voice—sometimes quiet, sometimes rising to a great crescendo. And when he dropped his voice, the entire crowd went as quiet as a mouse, so that you could hear every word. “He has the voice of an angel,” her father had remarked. “And the cunning of a devil,” he’d added approvingly.

For thirty years now, O’Connell had been a brilliant lawyer who specialized in defending Catholic clients against the Protestant Ascendancy. But if that was the necessary foundation of his career, his genius was for politics. And it was five years ago that he had begun his great political experiment when, with a group of like-minded followers, he had founded the Catholic Association.

There had never been anything like it before. There had been committees of Catholic gentlemen; there had been Patriots who favoured the Catholic cause; there had been Volunteers and local insurrections and revolutionaries. But O’Connell’s Catholic Association was none of these. It was a peaceful political movement. But it was a mass movement, open to every Catholic in Ireland who could afford the small minimum subscription of a penny a month. Nothing had ever been seen like this in politics before. Eamonn Madden had joined at once.

The genius of the thing lay in the way it was organised. For when his friends asked him, “However will you administer such an organisation, and who is to collect all the pennies?” O’Connell had cleverly replied: “I shall ask the local priests.”

It had worked. In every parish, the priest collected the pennies, kept note of the subscribers, and sent the money on. Why would he not, when the whole purpose of the organisation, in a strictly proper and legal manner, was to get justice for their flock and representation for their faith?

And O’Connell was always careful to show that his followers were law-abiding. At the meeting Maureen had attended with her father, when a detachment of troops had arrived in case of trouble, O’Connell had immediately asked the crowd to give them a cheer.

Of course, it was a great departure for the Church, too. “I’m not sure,” Father Casey, their kindly, grey-haired priest, had remarked to Eamonn, “that my predecessor would have done it. He was educated in Rome, you know, and he believed in the old order: ‘Obey your governors and know your place.’” But thirty years ago, the government had allowed the Catholic Church to set up a college for training priests at Maynooth, just west of Dublin; and these Irish-trained priests had more modern and nationalist views. “We’ll collect the money,” they said. And the funds flowing into the Association were huge. The membership was well over a million strong, and the organization taking in an astounding hundred thousand pounds a year.

When she heard her parents argue about O’Connell, Maureen could understand them both. Her mother was small, dark, and practical. She did things quickly. Her big, blue-eyed father was practical, too, but he liked to ponder things, and he would take his time when he thought it was necessary.

“All this money he collects,” her mother would object, “what is it for: so that a Catholic may sit in the British House of Parliament?”

“That is the first objective,” Eamonn answered. “Do you not find it strange that I, a Catholic, forty-shilling freeholder, have the right to vote—but that I may only vote for a Protestant to represent me?”

The town boroughs were still under the control of rich and powerful gentlemen and their friends; but in the elections to the rural county seats, the ancient forty-shilling property qualification had been eased, so that even a Catholic tenant paying forty shillings a year in rent had the right to vote. For a Protestant, of course. King George III had passed on to his maker now, and his artistic son George IV was on the throne, but he was just as firm as his father had been about having Catholics in Parliament. It was against the coronation oath, he, too, declared.

“What possible good, Eamonn, can such a business do us anyway?” his wife demanded. “A few Catholics in Parliament changes nothing for you and me.”

“Not at once, I grant you. But do you not see the principle of the matter? It is the admission that a Catholic is as good as a Protestant.”

Maureen knew what he meant, she was sure; but her mother only shrugged.

“And who is to sit in this Parliament now, with all your fine help, if it isn’t Daniel O’Connell himself? It’s for himself that you’re doing this.”

“And what better man could there be?” Eamonn asked with a smile.

Maureen knew from the sermons of Father Casey what humiliations were still heaped upon the Catholic Church itself. The British government, for instance, thought it had the right to veto the appointment of any Catholic bishop it did not like. “Think of it,” the priest would say. “The Prime Minister tells the Pope himself that the Church may not have the man His Holiness has chosen. Sends His Holiness back to try again, like a naughty schoolboy.” Even worse was the long-standing grievance over the tithes. For even now, the Catholics of every parish had to pay to support not their own priest but the Protestant clergyman; and having paid for the Protestant heretic, they, the poorest in part of the community, had to pay a second time if they wanted their own priest not to starve. Beyond these specifics lay the whole panoply of Ascendancy bullying which, whatever concessions the government might allow, still remained unchanged. For weren’t almost all the landlords, magistrates, and army officers still Protestant? Just recently, a local landowner called Synge had even compelled his tenants to convert to Protestantism or face eviction. Where were simple Catholics to turn in the face of such power? To the Catholic Association, of course.

“We have an advocate now,” Eamonn could say. Instead of burning a bad landlord’s barn, the aggrieved could speak to O’Connell, and the great Liberator would speak to the landlord. O’Connell could not right every wrong, but he could make a start.

None of this seemed to matter to her mother, however, in the light of the latest development. For now an election had brought O’Connell to their own doorstep.

It was a strange business. The sitting member for County Clare, a Protestant supporter of the Catholic cause, had been chosen for a government post, and by convention he submitted himself to his electors again before taking it. He was surprised that the Catholic Association should suddenly decide to oppose him—and amazed when the candidate turned out to be Daniel O’Connell himself.

The gauntlet was now thrown down. For the first time, a Catholic was standing for election.

“The beauty of it is this,” Eamonn explained to his family with a laugh. “British law does not forbid a Catholic to stand for election. But he cannot take his seat in the British House of Commons unless he takes the Protestant oath—which, of course, he has sworn he will not do. He’s using England’s own rules to embarrass them. If elected, he leaves them all in an impossible position.” It was a clever irony which delighted the Irish mind just as much as it appalled the English.

“And what will you say to Mr. Callan, then, that has been to our door three times looking for you?” she demanded with a look of anger and reproach. “What will you say, Eamonn—that your wife and children are to be put out, to go and beg for bread in Ennis?”

Maureen could not help being frightened when her mother said such things.

“It will not come to that,” her father replied.

“And why not? It did in Waterford.”

The fact was that, although the forty-shilling men all had the right to vote, it did not mean they could vote as they pleased. Not at all. Not unless they wanted to be evicted. For the landlords expected their tenants to vote as they were told. There could be no doubt about how they voted, either, since the votes were cast in public. Any tenant so rash, so foolish, so disloyal, as to vote against his landlord’s wishes was, in effect, declaring himself the enemy of the man whose land he rented. Naturally, therefore, the landlord or his agent would throw him out and seek another, more decent sort of person as tenant in his place. The message was clear and simple: obey or starve.

Not long ago, O’Connell and the Association had run a candidate—a Protestant gentleman, of course, but active in the Catholic cause—against the scion of one of the largest Ascendancy families in the area, who reasonably assumed that the seat was his by right. To the horror of the local landowners, O’Connell and his men had persuaded the tenants, and even their intimate retainers, to abandon their traditional loyalty and vote for the interloper. There had been rage, stupefaction—and evictions. The danger was real, therefore.

“This is not Waterford. This is Clare,” said Eamonn.

It was true that in the region, though perhaps a third of the landowners were absentee, most of the gentry were ancient Irish families like the O’Briens, or Old English like the Fitzgeralds who’d been in Ireland for six hundred years—though they had all, Old English and Irish alike, turned Protestant to keep their estates.

“And you think that Mr. Callan cares whether this is Clare or Waterford, or a desert in Asia?” his wife cried. “Or that an O’Brien would hesitate to turn out a tenant any more than an Englishman would?” she added for good measure. For it had to be confessed that there was no evidence that the Irish landowners would be any kinder than their English counterparts.

“And Father Casey: what would you say to him?” asked her father.

At Sunday Mass, the priest had made his view plain when he stood facing them, in front of the altar, and told them: “A vote for O’Connell is a vote for your religion. Be in no doubt, therefore, about what God requires.”

“Do you mean, Father,” one of his flock had asked him afterwards, “that if my husband votes as Mr. Callan says he must, it would be a mortal sin? Would he be in danger of hellfire?”

The kindly priest had hesitated, but nonetheless declared: “It may be so.”

But her mother was not so easily influenced. Maureen had noticed already that, while her mother went regularly to Mass and confession, and insisted that her children learn their catechism, she seemed to keep some part of her mind separate and under her own control.

“Father Casey,” she said bleakly, “hasn’t a wife and children to support.”

As the day of the election drew closer, Maureen asked her father, “What will you do?” And for the first time that she could remember, her big, strong father looked worried and uncertain.

“Truly, my child,” he answered, “I do not know.”

Stephen Smith was wearing a green sash with a large medal, and he was happy. What an astounding day. They were making history.

All Ireland was watching. All Britain, too. That was why the Earl of Mountwalsh had turned up, and Stephen was glad that he had; though he wondered who the unsmiling little fellow was that his lordship had brought with him.

You had to like William Mountwalsh. His wife might be silly— very nice, but silly. And perhaps there was something to be smiled at in the way this portly, middle-aged aristocrat was so determined never to miss anything or anybody making news. “I try to know everyone of interest in Ireland,” he had cheerfully confessed to Stephen when he first took him up. But then again, Stephen thought, what with the earl’s own huge acquaintance, and his brother’s scientific friends, he probably did. He’d only to hear of you for an invitation to be issued to his house on St. Stephen’s Green; and if he liked you, another to stay a few days down in the magnificence of Mount Walsh, so that he could really pump you. Not that an invitation to Mount Walsh was a thing to turn down. You lived exceedingly well, and the host himself had much to offer. With his large fortune and his seat in the House of Lords, he had a finger in every pie. There wasn’t much he couldn’t do for you if he chose. And his conversation was excellent. This, after all, was not only the son of the infamous Hercules but the friend of Emmet, a man who’d lived in Paris and America, and who’d publicly insulted the terrifying FitzGibbon when he was still only a youth at Trinity.

But to Stephen Smith, who at twenty was already a cynical and worldly young man, the saving grace of his lordship was that, unlike most aristocrats of that sort, he didn’t just drop you as soon as he had satisfied his curiosity. He was your friend for life and he stuck by you. Rare indeed.

So when he saw William waving to him from the steps of the town’s best inn, he went across to see him with real pleasure.

“Thought we’d find you here, Stephen,” the earl said genially. “Whatever is that sash you’re wearing?”

“It bears a medal, too,” said Stephen with a grin. “The Order of Liberators. The great man invented it. When I wear it, I think myself very fine.”

His lordship shook his head with amusement, then introduced his companion, a serious, quiet man of about twenty-five, who’d been staying at Mount Walsh. Samuel Tidy, he explained, was a Quaker. Stephen was surprised that his lordship would have favoured Tidy with a stay in Wexford. He looked rather dull.

“We set out from Limerick before dawn, Stephen,” the earl explained. “Tell us what’s going on.”

The transformation of Ennis had been remarkable. Perhaps, centuries ago, when there had been a fine Franciscan friary there, or even when the princely descendants of Brian Boru had owned the place, Ennis had been more handsome. But nowadays its burgesses seldom bothered to tidy up its mean and cluttered streets—except twice a year when the justices arrived at the courthouse for the assizes. Today, however, bright banners hung from the windows; the refuse had been swept up; even some of the more unsightly beggars and prostitutes had been rounded up and put in the capacious jailhouse for the duration.

The arrival of O’Connell had been like the progress of a medieval monarch. Although it had been the start of July, it had been pouring rain; but thousands had come out to welcome him as he entered Ennis behind the great blue and gold banner of the county.

“Mind you,” Stephen explained, “we’d already prepared the ground. O’Connell’s been writing letters to all the leading burgesses. He has a cousin here, too, you know,” he added, indicating a substantial house with a balcony some way down the street. “He’s staying there. I’ll be going back to him shortly.”

“We noticed a lot of priests as we came in,” Mountwalsh remarked, and Stephen laughed.

“A hundred and fifty, at last count. They’ve taken over the whole town. Some of them are even stationed at the polling booths to make sure that nobody wavers. It’s a crusade. And the discipline is fearful. Ale is permitted, but not a drop of whisky is to be taken, and God help any good Catholic found in possession of poteen. There are twenty-seven public houses in this miserable place, my lord, and the priests are watching all of them. It’s a terrible thing to see so many good men sober.”

He thought he noticed Tidy wince a little as he said this.

“My grandmother knew O’Connell when he was young, you know. In those days, she told me, he wasn’t nearly such a Catholic. She said he was a Deist.”

“Well, he’s certainly a good son of the Church now,” said Stephen. “His whole political career is based upon it. And look at the results.”

“A man may change his views,” the Quaker interposed gently. “No doubt Mr. O’Connell is sincere in his belief.”

“I’m not sure,” Stephen said honestly, “that any truly political man ever knows what he believes.”

At this, Lord Mountwalsh chuckled quietly, but Tidy looked puzzled.

“You must understand,” the earl said to the Quaker, “that young though he is, Stephen has been educating me about politics for years.”

Stephen had been only sixteen when he joined O’Connell, with nothing but a quick mind to recommend him. Working his way up from an office boy to an election agent, he had demonstrated a real flair for the political world. By last year, he’d impressed enough people for William Mountwalsh to hear of him and take him up. It seemed that the earl had been impressed with him; and perhaps he had taken more notice of Stephen than the young man really deserved when he had discovered that they shared a family connection.

“If you come from Rathconan, would you have known old Deirdre, the wife of Conall Smith?” the earl had asked him.

“My great-grandmother,” Stephen had told him. “I just remember her, though she must have been a great age when I was a small child.”

“Then you will know the children of my kinsman Patrick Walsh, that was killed at Vinegar Hill?”

“Indeed, my lord, I know them all.”

This had interested his lordship greatly.

“My grandmother Georgiana went up to Rathconan the year before she died,” he remembered. “She’d been very close to Patrick, and she wanted to know what had become of his children. She said they were all up there but none wanted to come down. If they had, I think she’d have given them money, you know.”

“They wanted nothing to do with Dublin,” Stephen had confirmed. “Old Deirdre would have seen to that. They married O’Tooles, O’Byrnes, Brennans, and the like. You couldn’t tell them apart now.”

“And Brigid,” the earl had wanted to know. “Did you ever hear of her?”

“Certainly. She wrote to Deirdre from Australia. She married again. I think she had more children. A dozen years ago, she owned a small hotel in New South Wales. That’s all I know.”

Such family considerations aside, William Mountwalsh had wanted to know all about Stephen’s life and what a young man of his generation hoped for.

“In the long run, the Repeal of the Union and an independent Ireland,” Stephen had told him. “But until then, the liberal Whig party in England is our best bet. It was the party of Sheridan, after all. The Whigs are sympathetic to Irish Catholics. As for O’Connell, I believe he can do more for us than any man living.”

Stephen had also come to realize that his lordship liked nothing better than to hear the latest political gossip that a young fellow working in the thick of the campaign can always supply. And the juicier the story, the more he liked it.

But what about this Quaker? Stephen did not know much about the Quakers, but he suspected this fellow was far too solemn for his own worldly tastes.

“Have you always been a Quaker, Mr. Tidy?” he politely enquired.

“My father belonged to the established Church, but my mother was a Quaker,” Tidy answered. “My father died when I was ten, and as the years passed, I became more drawn to the Friends.” Stephen noticed that the slight forward stoop of the small fellow was a permanent feature. With his thin, sandy hair, it gave him an ageless look.

“One of his family was butler to the great Dean Swift, and after that to the Duke of Devonshire, no less. Isn’t that right?” said Lord Mountwalsh.

“My father’s great-uncle,” Tidy acknowledged, and Stephen smiled to himself. Though the earl was remarkable for his lack of snobbery, even in the case of this Quaker, he still liked to know who you were.

“And what do you think of our election?” Stephen asked.

“I had not realized,” the Quaker said, “what an effect O’Connell has upon the crowds.”

“He’s like an Irish prince.”

“The O’Connells were princes?”

“No.” Stephen smiled. “But they made a small fortune.”

“In what business?”

“Smuggling,” said Stephen cheerfully.

“Oh.” The Quaker looked a little shocked.

“The Catholics trust him,” Stephen went on, “because they know that there are no lengths he won’t go to for their sake. He proved that as a lawyer. Did you hear the story of how he defended the man accused of murder?”

“I do not think so.”

The earl signalled that he knew the story but would be glad to hear it again.

“No one else would help the poor devil. So O’Connell gets up in front of the judge and lets him have it. ‘I cannot defend this poor Catholic,’ he cries, ‘because I know very well that he is condemned to death before this trial even begins. So why waste time? Since your lordship means to hang him anyway, you may as well condemn him now. I’ll be no part of it. But this I say to you,’ and he gives the judge a terrible look, ‘his blood be upon your hands!’ And with that, he storms out of the court.”

“And what happened?” asked Tidy.

“The judge was so terrified, he let the man off.”

“So justice was done after all?”

“Not at all. I asked the great man about it myself. ‘I’d no choice,’ says he, ‘for if it had ever gone to trial, I hadn’t a hope. The man was as guilty as sin.’”

William Mountwalsh chuckled appreciatively. Tidy looked grave and said nothing.

“And did he make a good speech here?” the earl asked after a moment’s silence.

“Scandalous,” said Stephen with a smile. “His opponent Fitzgerald, besides representing the greatest gentry here, is a man of the most liberal principles. His decency is universally admired by Protestant and Catholic alike. So our man gets up and delivers a speech the like of which I never heard. Openly insults him. You’d think Fitzgerald was a Cromwellian in league with every bigot in the Ascendancy. The crowd was roaring. The sheer unfairness of the thing was a work of art.” He shook his head admiringly. “He’ll have to apologize to Fitzgerald afterwards, of course. But then, he’s very good at doing that.”

It was all too much for Samuel Tidy.

“Does thy conscience not prick thee?” he cried in reproach. Stephen had heard of the Quaker custom of using the old forms of “thou” and “thee.” It was interesting to hear them now. And it had to be admitted that, although every word he had spoken was true, he had half hoped it might provoke a reaction from the solemn dissenter.

“Not,” he said firmly, “until after the election.”

At this moment, however, a great cry came from farther down the street as the first company of voters came marching into sight.

A county election like this was a lengthy affair. People would be coming in from up to forty miles away, and the polls would be open for five days. Often as not, the landlord himself would be at the head of his tenants in his carriage, while they walked on foot. He’d be leading them as a general leads his troops: expecting a similar obedience, and keeping a sharp eye open to see that he got it. Reaching the polling booths at the courthouse, each man would publicly cast his vote as his landlord directed—if he was wise.

But the sight which greeted their eyes now was without precedent. For marching along the street, with banners flying, came a body of men led not by a landlord but a line of priests. Behind the priests came fifes and a piper. As this procession went by, the people lining the streets cheered. Stephen turned to Mountwalsh.

“Impressed?” he asked, and then excused himself, saying that he had to get back to O’Connell, but promising to return.

Inside the house, he found a scene of excitement. O’Connell’s cousin Charles was at the window of the big upstairs room, watching the men go by. O’Connell himself was surrounded by wellwishers and lieutenants.

“There they go. Another fifty. Brave boys,” cried Charles delightedly.

But if everyone else was looking cheerful, the big man himself was surprisingly sombre.

“Brave boys indeed, Charles,” he said. “For every one of them is risking eviction, and let’s not forget it.” He turned to his agent. “From now on, Shiel, your main task is with the landlords. The Orangeists believe that the whole of Catholic Ireland is ready to revolt, and that I’m the only one that can control them and stem the tide. They’re wrong, of course, but we can make use of their fear. You must convince them that if they retaliate with evictions, I won’t answer for the consequences.”

“I’ll tell them that any evictions would be against their own interests.”

“Make sure they understand.”

Charles O’Connell was looking up the street.

“Ah,” he said, “here comes a sad crowd.”

Stephen joined him at the window. About forty men were walking slowly up the street. They were accompanied by an elderly priest, but at their head marched a small, dark-haired man who looked grim but determined.

“That’s Callan the agent,” said Charles. “Absentee landlord. Old priest’s called Casey. A good man, but I don’t know if he can hold them together.”

“What’s that?” Daniel O’Connell was across the room in a moment. “Open the big window,” he commanded, and stepped out onto the balcony. The men below saw him. The people lining the way cheered. O’Connell raised his hand, and the marching men stopped, while the crowd fell silent.

“Are the forty-shilling freeholders slaves?” His voice rolled down from the balcony and filled the street. The men looked up at him, and as he gazed back, his huge figure magically conveyed strength and reassurance. “Are they like Negroes, to be whipped to the slave market?” His eyes searched out each man. “I do not think so.”

Callan scowled. The crowd cheered. The men also cheered, but you could tell they were afraid. It was obvious that Callan had threatened them. Voices from the crowd called out: “Come on, boys. Vote for the old religion.”

Looking down, Stephen noticed one fellow in particular. A big, handsome, blue-eyed fellow. He had taken his cap off in respect for O’Connell, but he was twisting it in his hands, obviously in some agony of mind.

O’Connell stepped back.

“Poor devils,” he remarked. “That little agent’s done his work, you can see.”

“Threatened them with eviction?” asked Stephen.

“No. More effective than that. Threatened their wives.”

But now, just as the men were moving on, Stephen saw them halted again, this time by a priest who, obviously not satisfied with their demeanour, had decided to put some more fire into them. “That’s Father Murphy,” said Charles O’Connell. “This will be something to hear.” And he opened the window again.

Father Murphy was certainly a striking figure. Tall, gaunt, his long white hair falling lankly to his shoulders, his eyes like coals of fire, he glared at the men like a prophet of old and began to harangue them in Irish.

William Mountwalsh was glad he had come to Ennis. He didn’t think he’d stay the full five days of the election, but it was a historic occasion, and he’d be able to tell everyone that he was there.

He was amused by young Stephen Smith. Of course, the boy was hard and cynical, and thought life was all a game. But it was William’s experience that young men of twenty are either too idealistic or too cynical; time would improve him. As for his new Quaker friend Tidy, he liked him.

Two months ago, he’d had one of the evangelicals down to Mount Walsh. A follower of Wesley. They were spreading quite surprisingly in Ireland, though not as fast as in England, thank God. They meant well, no doubt: they wanted to purify the world. He wasn’t sure at his age he wanted the world to be so pure. And it depressed him to hear the Evangelical speak of “subjugating Irish popery to the Faith of Christ.” That was what people had done back in the century of Cromwell, and a grim business it had been.

Tidy was entirely different. The Quakers were becoming quite an active community in Dublin and in Cork, so he had thought it time he came to know them better. He had to admit that they puzzled him. Instead of a service, they sat in reverential silence in their meeting houses and got up to speak if the spirit moved them. A strange way to carry on. A Catholic bishop with whom he’d once discussed the Quakers had put it rather well. “I do not for a moment deny that their intentions are well-meaning. What I cannot discover is where their God is to be found.”

But a few days with Tidy had impressed the earl enormously. The Quaker did not criticize other churches, and he assured William that his fellow Quakers never tried to convert others away from their faith. He did not sanctify; he did not curse. He merely tried to treat his neighbour in a godly fashion, and his own goodness and sincerity were obvious. Actions, not words seemed to be his daily creed. “You remind me of the Good Samaritan,” William had told him, and meant it as a sincere compliment.

Here in Ennis, he could see that Tidy was rather shocked, and he didn’t blame him. Indeed, from what he had witnessed so far, he was rather shocked himself. He turned to the Quaker.

“I don’t like what I see, Samuel Tidy. Do you?”

“It is not what Quakers believe in.”

William nodded and pursed his lips. The trouble was, he thought, he’d seen it all before. He’d seen the French Revolution turn into terror and dictatorship. How quickly the underdog could turn into a tyrant. He’d supported the cause of Catholic emancipation since he was a youth; and God knows, if this peaceful army of O’Connell’s was militant, it was understandable. But as he watched the phalanx of priests marching in front of their men, with fifes playing and banners flying, he sensed a triumphalism that disturbed him.

Perhaps it was because he was middle-aged, but the older he got, the more William respected compromise; and from his perspective, these local priests were going further than necessary. Reforms were needed, of course, but there was no need for this bad feeling. For relations between the British government and the Vatican, nowadays, were actually rather cordial. During the years when Napoleon dominated Europe and threatened its Catholic monarchs, Rome had been glad that England stood as the bulwark against him; and after Napoleon’s final defeat, when the territories of Europe were reordered at the great Congress of Vienna, a dozen years ago, it had been the British who insisted that the rich Italian Papal States must be given back to the Pope, who had been grateful to Britain ever since. O’Connell and the parish priests had a good case, for instance, when they complained about the tithes; but their outrage about the Prime Minister’s veto over bishops was unnecessary. William himself was in a position to know that, behind the scenes, the British government and the Vatican discreetly arranged the top Church appointments together, to everyone’s satisfaction.

“I’m with O’Connell on Catholic Emancipation. And since I was never for the Union, I would support its repeal,” he remarked to Tidy. “But times change, and one must look for what is practical. This militancy is dangerous.”

William usually spent about three months a year in London. He enjoyed sitting in the British House of Lords and keeping up with events in London. And much could be achieved there. Even Grattan thought so, for he’d spent the last fifteen years of his life in the London Parliament. And despite the fear of Catholicism which, William now understood, was ingrained in the English like a race memory, there were many in the British Parliament, especially in the liberal Whig party, who were most anxious to grant the Irish Catholics what they wanted. This very spring, the last legal disabilities had been removed from the Dissenters. It was inevitable that, with time, the Catholics would be similarly treated. Patience was needed.

But what he saw here was war. War of tenant upon landlord, war of Catholic upon Protestant.

“I fear also,” Tidy continued, “that this will arouse the worst fears of the Presbyterians and Orangeists.”

“How right you are,” William concurred. Since he was a boy, the Presbyterians had changed their tune completely. In those days, most Ulster Presbyterians wanted to be free of England and its Church, which made them second-class citizens. But nowadays, with their own rights secured, they were the strongest supporters of the Union. “United with England and Scotland, we are part of a Protestant majority,” they judged. “Without England, we become a minority in a sea of Irish papists.” And propelled by that fear, their preachers were starting to sound as strident as they had back in the days of Cromwell. When they read of these marching priests and tenants in Clare, it would arouse all their worst fears.

And suddenly, William felt a pang of nostalgia for the days of his youth. He longed for the old Patriots, or the men of ’98, like Patrick Walsh or noble young Emmet. They had all shared a common vision—of a free Ireland, where Catholic and Protestant, Presbyterian and Deist, could live together in equality under the law. It might be idealistic, but it was a noble ideal, and he missed it.

Nor was it impractical. For if the new republic of America, with its separation of church and state, could realize such an ideal, then why not here in the Old World, too?

Yet when he considered these men, marching in Ennis—no matter how justified their grievances—Lord Mountwalsh thought he heard not the continuing march of enlightenment, but a heavier, grimmer sound: the slow, sectarian thud of boot on blood, as though, like a returning prophesy, an age-old darkness was closing in again.

Tidy’s thoughts at that moment were following quite a different course. He was glad he had gone to stay with the earl. He had never stayed in a great country house before. He had especially liked the library. He had even liked the earl’s wife, whose heart was in the right place, even if she had seemed to him a little foolish. And he was glad that Mountwalsh had brought him to see this election. For this, too, was instructive.

But his thoughts were less on the election than upon what he had seen already in County Clare.

He had never been to the west before. Dublin and Leinster he knew, with their rich farmlands; the busy port of Cork, also. Ulster he knew, with its farmsteads, its cloth and linen industries. But the rural west of Ireland he did not know.

How was it possible, he asked himself, amidst such magnificent scenery, that the people could be so neglected and so poor? How was it that the burgesses of Ennis could allow the terrible squalour of the shantytowns along the approaches to their town? Were they not ashamed? How could the landlords—not only the absentees, but those there to see, Irishmen of the same blood, if they were Christians—let their neighbours live in such conditions and do nothing about it? How could the poor themselves take so little care that they would have families in the first place, to bring them up in deprivation? Why was there no industry, no enterprise to bring employment? His practical, self-controlled Quaker soul protested against this vast, cruel carelessness.

But now that unpleasant young political man was returning. He had learned as much as he cared to from Stephen Smith. But he took a deep breath and tried to remember that it was not for him to make judgements upon another man.

Stephen loved the mad business of the election. O’Connell had sent him on an errand, but he had promised to return to Lord Mountwalsh, and as he could only remain with him for a minute or two, he was glad to have something amusing to tell him. The scene he had just witnessed had been quite remarkable. For the harangue Father Murphy had delivered had been mesmerising in its intensity.

“It was all in Irish,” he explained. “The O’Connells had to translate, because most of us from Leinster didn’t have enough Irish to understand. First, he reminds them of their duty, and they all look suitably solemn, but he isn’t sure he has them. Then he reminds them of all the others that are voting as they should, and how accursed they will be by all their fellows if they let them down. That affects them considerably, by the look of it. And then comes the clincher. Did they not know, he cries, wagging his long bony finger at them, that one of the Catholic men voted for the Protestant— and that he was struck down by an apoplexy as soon as he stepped out of the booth? ‘Divine retribution will be swift,’ he cries. ‘You may count upon it. The saints are watching, and taking note!’ He was quite terrifying. I was frightened myself.”

The earl gave a wry smile. Stephen was chuckling. But Tidy was not amused.

“Do you mean that there was an unfortunate who was struck with an apoplexy, or that there was no such man?” he asked seriously.

“Heavens, man,” cried Stephen, “I haven’t the least idea. What does it matter?”

“Does it not matter to thee whether a thing is the truth or a lie?” the Quaker asked.

“You haven’t the spirit of devilment in you,” said Stephen, “or you would understand.”

“I hope,” answered Tidy quietly, “that I have not.”

It was a little while later, walking along the street where the local newspaper, the Clare Journal, had its offices, that Stephen caught sight of the big, blue-eyed fellow he had noticed in the band of tenants who’d been harangued by Father Murphy. They’d all voted for O’Connell. He’d checked. Now it remained to be seen whether Callan the agent would evict them, or whether he could be persuaded not to.

The big fellow was standing by a small cart and looking serious. Beside him was a girl, maybe ten or so, pale and with a solemn face. The big man had his arm around her shoulder. Father and daughter, obviously. Was he comforting her, or she him? She must know what he had done.

Pity, he thought, that the girl was so plain.