The Rebels of Ireland by Edward Rutherfurd
It was with great curiosity, therefore, that, just before eleven o’clock the next day, Orlando watched as the single horseman, thin as a quill and dressed in black, drew up the sunlit path to the house. There he was greeted by his father, who took him inside. He wished he could have gone in with them to listen.
The two men sat opposite each other across a table. Walsh, comfortably dressed in a spruce-green doublet, looked exactly the member of the gentry that he was. Doctor Pincher was all in black, except for a narrow white collar with the thinnest possible embroidery of lace.
“I came to ask if you would act for me,” he began, “in a matter that I wish to be secret.”
“Such requests are not unusual,” Walsh answered easily. “But we have never had dealings before.”
“You are surprised, perhaps, that I should entrust such a matter to . . .” He hesitated.
“A Catholic?”
“Indeed.” Pincher inclined his head politely. For though he had no doubt that his Protestant faith made him, in God’s eyes, the superior of the papist, Pincher could not help being uncomfortably aware that Walsh was by birth the lauded gentleman which he was not.
“I am glad to entrust myself to a Catholic lawyer, Sir,” he allowed himself a smile, “though I might hesitate to go to a Catholic surgeon.” It was not often that Doctor Pincher made a joke; but this was one of them.
Walsh did his best to smile.
“Please proceed,” he said.
“It is a question of title,” Pincher began.
His journey down into Munster had been a great success. The living with its small church and smaller house was perfect. He could preach there now and then, and put a poor curate in to take care of the daily ministry. But the land was excellent. He had found agents who would cut the trees and carry the timber down to the coast for shipment. The prices offered were excellent. It was clear to him that shipping even half the woodland would yield him a handsome profit. Nor had he had any difficulty in recommending himself to Boyle, who had already been assured by the doctor’s obliging friends at Christ Church and Trinity that Pincher was, indeed, just the sort of godly man to be encouraged. He had secured the living at once. But the prospect of this God-given increase in his wealth, the new and brighter light it shed upon his life, had strengthened his faith and given him courage to aim at even higher things.
Having gone down to the port of Waterford to make his enquiries about the shipping, he had decided to return to Dublin in a coastal vessel that had just been leaving. It had been an easy and pleasant voyage. And as he had watched the coastline slip by, he had found his mind repeatedly going back to that strange night he had spent at Rathconan. Whether it was blind luck or the unseen hand of the deity, there seemed no doubt that a potentially important piece of information had been placed before him.
As he explained to Walsh what he wanted, the lawyer’s face remained impassive, though once or twice, a slight twitch might have betrayed some emotion.
“So,” he summarised, “you believe that under English law, Brian O’Byrne may not have a valid title to the Rathconan estate. You wish me in the first place to investigate this matter. If the information proves to be correct, you may wish to retain me as counsel should you, alone or with others, wish to make application to obtain that estate.”
“Correct.”
There had already been active voices from government officials and other greedy people urging a thorough investigation of defective land titles, in precisely the hope of finding native Irish estates that could be legally taken away from their customary owners, so that the English crown could either take them or release them to its friends or onto the market.
“So that, should there be any fault with the title, you will have this information before any of the others, who will doubtless be eager to seize Brian O’Byrne’s inheritance from him.”
“Precisely,” said Doctor Pincher.
“Should young O’Byrne’s title be found defective, is there any other claimant?”
“Perhaps. A mere Irishman of no account who, I am sure, has no document of title of any kind.”
“Might I ask,” Walsh inquired, “why you have done me the honour to come to me, and not to another?”
“I am generally informed, Sir, that you are more fully acquainted with the landholdings of this part of Ireland than any man living.”
This, as it happened, was probably correct. For five generations, since long before the monasteries were dissolved by King Henry VIII, even since Plantagenet times, Martin Walsh’s ancestors had been involved in the legal affairs of the church and lay estates all down the eastern side of Ireland. There was hardly an estate in Leinster or Meath that the family didn’t know well, and many in Ulster and Munster, too. The knowledge had been passed down the generations. Martin had already, in his gentle way, been feeding it to young Orlando for some years. If Pincher wanted discreet investigations made about Rathconan, he couldn’t have come to a better place.
Walsh nodded. Then he leant forward slightly.
“I am but a lawyer, Sir, and you are a philosopher. May I put to you one other question which I myself am not learned enough to answer?”
“I am at your service,” said Doctor Pincher.
“Well, then,” said the lawyer softly, “it is this, and pertains to philosophy rather than to law. Even if, in strict law, we find that Brian O’Byrne has no sound English title to Rathconan, should we be troubled in our conscience, would you judge, by the young man’s loss of it?”
“I should say no.”
“How so?”
“Because he holds it, if not by law, then by a barbarous custom, and not honestly.”
“By the custom of the mere Irish.” He nodded. “That would be so, no doubt. And Irish custom, being barbarous, has no moral claim to our consideration. It is, so to speak, unnatural.”
“You have it,” said Doctor Pincher, pleased that they had understood each other.
Martin Walsh gazed at him without expression. It would have amused him to ask the philosopher whether, in his personal view, avarice should still be accounted a deadly sin; but he forbore to do so. Instead, he quietly observed:
“I should tell you now that there are some, even in Dublin Castle, who wish to proceed with caution. If, as may be supposed, young O’Byrne of Rathconan is well-affected, those persons will think it wiser not to dispossess him of lands that many will believe he holds rightly. There has been no rebellion here. Nor has he abandoned his lands like Tyrone. Whatever the law, such people would say, such dispossession would be unwise and only stir up further trouble.” It was, indeed, exactly the counsel he would have given the English government himself.
“You and I,” Pincher said, “would think otherwise, I hope.”
Was it possible, Walsh wondered, that this interview was a trap of some kind? Might Pincher have been sent by either the government or, more likely, some faction to test his views and the extent of his loyalty? It was possible, but unlikely. His views were the same as most of the Old English he knew, and would have been expected in Dublin Castle. But his loyalty wasn’t in question.
No, his judgement was that Pincher was playing exactly the game he said he was. Even after living seventeen years in Ireland, the Trinity man was so blinkered by his own prejudices that he imagined that he, Martin Walsh, because he was Old English, would happily aid in the dispossessing of this coreligionist O’Byrne because O’Byrne was Irish. Did Pincher have any idea of the curious mutual respect that had arisen as the Walshes of Carrickmines beat off the raids of the O’Byrnes down the centuries? Had he any notion that there was at least a trace of Walsh blood in the veins of young Brian O’Byrne, let alone that Walsh’s own daughter Anne was married to a man who, although his name was Walter Smith, was almost certainly an O’Byrne by natural descent? Such deep and tangled roots would have been quite unknown to Pincher.
“I will make enquiries,” he replied. “But I should counsel you now that I do not know whether th
Soon after this, Doctor Pincher left, with the promise that Walsh would write to him when he had any news.
It was early afternoon when he called Orlando to walk out with him.
“Where are we going, Father?” he asked.
“Portmarnock.”
There was a light breeze, agreeably cool. It gave him pleasure that Orlando enjoyed keeping him company. The boy himself could not possibly imagine the comfort that this presence brought to his father, nor would Martin have burdened him by letting him guess. So they walked together, for the most part, in silence. No doubt his son was curious about the visit of Doctor Pincher, but there might be reasons why it was better he should know nothing; and in the meantime, there were a few, more important things he wished to say.
They had just started down the long slope that led across the coastal open ground when he glanced at his son and quietly asked:
“Tell me, Orlando, would you ever break the law?”
“No, Father.”
“So I should hope.” He walked on in silence for a few moments. “I have often spoken to you of the confidence and trust that must be the rule between a client and his lawyer. That trust is sacred. To break it is like breaking the law. It is against everything I stand for. It is a treason.”
“I know, Father.”
“You do.” Martin Walsh drew a deep breath and nodded to himself thoughtfully. “And yet, my son,” he continued quietly, “there may be a time in your life when you have to consider doing such a thing. It is possible that there may be larger matters that you must consider.”
There was no need to say more. He knew that Orlando would remember what he had said. He turned his mind back to his own immediate problem. The course of action he was considering would certainly be a betrayal. Yet was it the right thing to do? Perhaps. If it were ever discovered, it might make him powerful enemies; but when he considered all the circumstances, he was inclined to take the chance and to act now. He had a feeling that there was not much time.
As they came in sight of Portmarnock, he turned to Orlando again.
“When I’m uncertain what to do, I always pray,” he remarked. “How do you pray, Orlando?”
“I say the prayers I know, Father.”
“Good. But they are only the means, you know. The words of the prayers are a way of leading us to empty our minds of all other considerations until we are ready to hear the voice of God.”
“Do you ever hear a voice, Father?”
“Like a human voice, Orlando? No, though some have done so. God’s voice is usually silent, best heard in silence.”
When they reached the holy well, Walsh knelt down and prayed quietly for some time while Orlando, not wishing to interrupt him, knelt at a short distance and tried to do the same. When Walsh had finished, he gazed thoughtfully at the well for a few moments, and then, motioning to Orlando to join him, began to slowly walk home. They hardly spoke, because Walsh wanted to remain in his silent, rather abstracted state; but when they were halfway home, he put out his hand and allowed it to rest upon the boy’s shoulder for a little while.
When they entered the house again, he told Orlando to prepare himself for a long journey the following day. Then he retired to his chamber and, selecting a large sheet of paper, he spread it on a table and sat down to write. He wrote carefully, taking several hours over the task, and carefully folding and sealing the letter with wax when he had done. Having finished, he felt so tired that he did not bother to eat but went straight to his rest.
The next morning, however, he was up at first light, feeling refreshed.
When Orlando received his instructions from his father, he was greatly astonished. He had never been asked to do such a thing before.
“You are to go into Dublin to your cousin Doyle. Tell him that I shall come to him myself by noon. Meanwhile, here is a note from me to him, asking that he supply you with anything you ask. You will ask for a fresh, strong horse and a change of clothes. Then I wish you to leave Dublin without being recognised, and to ride south.” Now he produced the sealed letter he had written the evening before. “You are to keep this with you at all times. On no account must it fall into other hands. You will reach your destination tonight, and remain there until morning. Then you can return the way you came.”
“Where am I going?” asked Orlando.
“Rathconan,” answered his father. Then he gave him the rest of his instructions.
The day was fine, the sky clear, and Orlando’s heart was singing as he set out on his task. The contents of his father’s letter were unknown to him, but to be sent out on a mission like this, with the injunction that he was never in his life to tell a soul what he had done, was a thrilling prospect. The secret errands he had performed for his sister when he was a little boy had been a fine adventure; but for his father, whom he so revered, to entrust him with such an important affair—it made him swell with pride and happiness.
He accomplished the change in Dublin easily enough, and with his face half hidden by a battered, wide-brimmed hat, he set out from Dublin’s gates, through Donnybrook, towards the Wicklow Mountains. No one from Dublin watched him as he cleared the southern orchards; no one could possibly have guessed where he was headed. Sometimes cantering easily, sometimes at a walk, he crossed the plain and made his way up into the hills. At noon, he rested for an hour; and by late afternoon he was at Rathconan.
Following his father’s instructions, he did not give his name, but when Brian O’Byrne came out to see what he wanted, he gave him the letter and explained that he was ordered to watch O’Byrne read it. Slightly surprised, Brian led him inside, where they went up to the hall.
He was quite surprised to find O’Byrne such a young-looking man, only a few years older than himself; with his tousel of fair hair he seemed almost boyish. But there was a quiet look of authority in his strange green eyes that impressed Orlando. Sitting at an oak table, O’Byrne read slowly and carefully, his face once or twice registering some surprise. Then he got up, fetched paper, pen, and ink, and wrote down a few words. When this was done, he glanced at Orlando.
“You are his son?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know what is in this letter?”
“My father said it was better I should not know.”
“He is right.” Brian O’Byrne nodded.
The contents of the letter had considerably shaken him. It told him in the briefest terms that his inheritance might be at risk, and counselled him to take immediate action. Martin Walsh had been appalled not so much at the naked avarice of Pincher—God knows the lawyer was hardly a stranger to avarice in all conditions of men—but at the absolute political folly of the legalised theft of land from a well-disposed Irishman like Brian O’Byrne. It was precisely the sort of stupidity on the part of the New English which could still, one day, make the island ungovernable. And it was this higher sense of duty which, after his prayers, had decided him to break his duty of confidence and intervene.
It was quite often the case that the English government had regularised the land titles of men like Brian O’Byrne. He knew one or two officials in Dublin Castle who had similar views to his own, and whose names he had given young O’Byrne in his letter. A discreet word with Doyle might also bring some other Protestant gentlemen in to help. But with the Parliament and their friends, let alone Doctor Pincher looking for such opportunities, he advised O’Byrne to go down to Dublin quietly and without delay, “before the hounds pick up your scent.” For reasons he could not give, however, his own part in this affair must never be known. “I have broken a lawyer’s oath to tell you this,” he wrote frankly.
“Tell your father, Orlando Walsh, that the O’Byrnes of Rathconan are forever in his debt,” Brian said with feeling.
“I am to watch you burn the letter,” said Orlando.
“You shall.” O’Byrne led him to the fire, and together they watched until the incriminating letter w
“You must eat with me,” said Brian.
“I’m to sleep in the stable and not give my name,” said Orlando.
“Ah yes, of course.” O’Byrne smiled. “But I promise you this, Orlando Walsh, I shall know you as a friend another time.”
Orlando set out at dawn the next day. The sky over the Wicklow Mountains was clear. A soft breeze was coming from the sea. He was feeling so proud of himself, having accomplished his mission to the letter, and he could not wait to let his father know.
In the middle of the morning, the wind changed and began to come form the north, a little colder. And as he reached the high slope from which the whole panorama of Dublin Bay spread out, he saw that a long, greyish bank of cloud had moved down from Ulster and was already casting a dull shadow over Fingal in the distance. He had made good progress, however, and it was not even noon when he entered the city and rode into the courtyard of his cousin Doyle’s house.
Doyle and his wife were not at home, but a servant told him: “He says you’re to ride on as soon as you arrive.” As Orlando had planned to do exactly that, he quickly changed to his own horse and set off at once.
The shadow of the cloud bank passed over him just after he crossed the Liffey. As he rode on, the greyness of the day became more encompassing and oppressive, although once or twice, away to his right, he saw the sun’s light harshly cut through the cloud in a silvery gash over the sea. His heart was full of happiness as he rode across the familiar plain. He smiled as a flock of pale seagulls suddenly rose from the field in front of him and wheeled loudly in the iron-grey sky. And he felt a surge of warmth as, passing through a familiar little wood, he came in sight of the house.
He was surprised to see his sister at the door.
“Hello, Anne,” he said.
“Thank God you’ve come. He’s been waiting for you.”