“He has seduced her?”
“I don’t say that. For all I know, it was the other way round. But I have asked him to promise not to see her anymore.”
“Has he done so?”
“No. And I shall have to send her back to her family. We can only hope there have been no unfortunate consequences.”
“Terence said nothing of this.”
“He doesn’t know. It has all come about this last week or so.”
“Surely the girl should go at once, then, for everyone’s sake.”
“I fear so. She’s not a bad little soul, and I’m sorry to send her back to her wretched home. But . . .” The priest shook his head, then suddenly burst out: “The young fool. He could go far. As far, at least, as a poor Catholic boy can go in Dublin nowadays.”
Fortunatus watched him thoughtfully. It was clear that Nary was frustrated with his difficult protégé.
“You say he has read a great deal.”
“He’s been through half my library.”
“He comes to dine with Terence and his family every month, as you probably know. I suppose I could do the same. But I have to go up into County Cavan for a few days shortly. I wonder if I should take him with me. It would keep him out of trouble.”
“I could send the girl away while he’s gone,” Nary said thoughtfully. “That might do very well. Though you’re a brave man to take him. What do you mean to do up there?” It was clear from his tone that to Nary, who came from the rich farmland of County Kildare, the northern county of Cavan with its bogs and little lakes held no attraction.
“I’m to visit an old friend, a schoolmaster. He’s a learned man, and a wit as well. It might interest the boy.”
Doctor Nary was listening carefully. Now he gave Fortunatus a sharp look.
“A schoolmaster, you say, with a house in Cavan? And what would be the name of this place, might I ask?”
“The house is called Quilca.”
“Quilca?” Nary slapped his hand on the table. “I might have guessed. Quilca.” He shook his head. “And tell me this—will there be other company there, from Dublin?”
“I believe there will, yes. Another old friend of his.” He grinned. “I think you know already. The Dean of Saint Patrick’s.”
“I knew it,” cried Nary, in only partly mock vexation. “The intolerable unfairness of the thing. It’s me you should be taking, Walsh, not young Smith.”
“I’m sure you’d be very welcome.”
“Perhaps. I hope so. But I’ve other duties here.” He sighed. “I feel, Fortunatus, like the worthy brother in the parable of the Prodigal Son. Here I am, labouring faithfully in the service of the Lord, and it’s that young rascal who’s to go to Quilca. Why, man,” he burst out, “you’ll be in the finest company in all Ireland!”
“I would not disagree.”
“Take him to Quilca, then,” groaned Cornelius Nary. “Take him for the good of his soul. Though I hope you do not live to regret it.”
“I’m sure I can manage him,” said Fortunatus.
“Perhaps. But I warn you,” said the priest, “that you are taking a considerable risk.”
It was some hours later that the three brothers met in the family house in Belfast. They came together in sadness.
Outside, it was raining. If Dublin was still bathed in evening sunshine, up here, eighty miles to the north, a wet wind from the west was dragging a pall of grey cloud over the Mountains of Morne, and a dreary rain was falling over the great port of Belfast beyond.
A month had passed since their father had died, that sound, God-fearing old Ulster Scot. They had buried their mother ten years ago. There was nobody left in the family now but Henry, and John, and Samuel Law.
Henry observed his brothers. We are decent young men, he thought. We love each other as best we can; and when love is difficult, loyalty always remains. We cling to that.
“Well, Samuel, no doubt you’ve made up your mind. What’s it to be?” John, the eldest, straight to the point. Tall and dark-haired like their father. Hardworking, the undisputed head of the family now.
Samuel smiled. Perhaps because he was the youngest, he was the most easygoing. He was built differently, as well. He was considerably shorter than his brothers, even a little chubby. His hair was sandy, flecked with red—an inheritance from their mother’s side, Henry supposed. But he knew what he wanted. Always had. In his genial way, considered Henry, he’s just as stubborn.
“I’m going,” he said. “There’s a good ship leaving next week. I’m going to America.”
John nodded. If a man left for America, the chances were that you would never see him again.
“We shall miss you,” he said quietly. That was a lot, coming from John, the man who never gave way to his emotions. Even then, Henry noted, he did not say “I shall miss you,” but “we.” That made it a statement of family duty rather than personal feeling. Henry smiled to himself. John never changed. Just like their father. “But I think you are right, Samuel,” John continued gravely. “I believe I’d go myself, except for . . .” There was no need to finish the sentence. John was the only one married as yet, and they all knew that his wife had made her feelings very clear. She had a large family in Ulster and no intention of being parted from them. “I am sure that it’s God’s will, and that you’ll prosper there,” John added.
“It isn’t just for myself that I’m leaving,” said Samuel. “But if God grants me a family one day, I’ll not bring them up in Ireland.”
And no one could blame him for that, thought Henry. For under Ireland’s English rule, the Law family lived under humiliating disadvantages. Not because they were Catholic but, on the contrary, because they were Protestant.
If there was one thing the Ascendancy believed it had learned from the past, it was that religious disputation led to bloodshed. The disputes must therefore end. The official Church, with its compromise liturgy and its bishops, might not be perfect, but it represented order. It was to be established once and for all, and any other groups, whether papist, dissenters, sectaries, or anything else, were to be rendered impotent. Even the stern Elect of God were now to be humbled. “We had enough of those damned Presbyterians before, especially the Scotch ones,” the gentlemen of the Ascendancy parliaments declared. So their legislation was directed not only against Catholics but all dissenting Protestants as well. “Join the established Church,” they were told, “or be second-class subjects.” And so the Scots Presbyterians who formed the most vigorous part of the Protestant community in Ulster were therefore debarred from civic and public life, and humiliated.
It was three generations since the Law family had come to Ulster. Hardworking, respectable Lowland Scots, their great-grandfather had proudly taken the Covenant; it had been a younger son, looking to make his fortune, who had come over to Ulster. There he had prospered in the wool trade, conducted through the growing port of Belfast, and raised his family in the Presbyterian faith. The Law family had been horrified when Catholic King James came to the throne, and delighted when King William beat him. And after the Battle of the Boyne, they had assumed that the new Protestant regime would be the end of their troubles, not the beginning of them.
When the English showed their loyalty to their fellow Protestants in Ireland by destroying their wool trade, the Law family had suffered a grievous financial blow. But it took more than that to defeat their sturdy Scottish enterprise.
None of the three brothers would forget the day—they had still been boys at the time—when their father had called them into the cobblestone yard and shown them a small barrel.
“This was just landed, from America,” he told them. “And it will save us. Do you know what is in it? Flaxseed.”
For from flax came linen.
There had been linen in Ireland from time immemorial. But the opening of the New World had now provided a vast potential supply of cheap flaxseed. As the wool trade declined, enterprising men like Law saw an opportunity. They started making
linen instead of woollen cloth, and since the English themselves were not much engaged in that commodity, they had no need to destroy the livelihood of their Irish friends in this new trade.
And no one was more active in promoting the linen business than the Law family. They did not simply trade in finished linen. Soon Mr. Law had a network of a dozen farmers whom he provided with seed, spinning wheels, anything else they needed for making the yarn. With supplies guaranteed, he devoted himself first to making the linen and then to selling it. By the time King George came to the throne, Law had his own warehouse on the wharf at Belfast, and shares in half a dozen ships. He also had three sons who were thoroughly trained in the business.
The Laws were a typical family of their kind. Their faith, though it derived from the Calvinism of the century before, was of a gentler nature. They found inspiration in the simple affection of their family, in praying, or better yet, singing, the beloved Psalms together. And they were not without humour.
Nonetheless, they were tough Scots, with a strict Presbyterian church, and they believed firmly in the virtue of hard work and frugal living. They had, all of them, a sharp eye for profit and a dislike of unnecessary costs. Mr. Law had been able to acquire a handsome town house in Belfast; but when his wife had suggested she’d like some fine silk curtains for the parlour, she had been told that the old tapestry ones left by the previous owner, with only a small amount of mending—her husband kindly got down on his knees to show her how easily the thing could be done—might perfectly well be made to serve another twenty years. And since a display of silk would, in any case, be vanity and ostentation, religion dictated what her husband desired, and so there had been no need for the matter ever to be raised again.
Close-knit, churchgoing, sober, healthy, frugal, debt-free: this was the Law family. And, there could be no doubt, the Presbyterian faith was of particular assistance for a manufacturer of dry goods. But since that heritage meant that they would not bow the knee to a bishop, the Ascendancy could not accept them; and so, in a strange irony, the fact that they were strict Protestants meant that they must be treated, almost, like papists.
It was hardly surprising, therefore, that the Presbyterians of Ulster had been leaving. Being intrepid Scots, whole families would often go together, so that thriving colonies of Ulster Presbyterians had sprung into existence in the New World with remarkable speed—colonies where a new arrival like Samuel Law would find a ready welcome in a godly congregation.
Not that the Law brothers were blind to the other reasons for going. They were businessmen, after all. “Land is to be had cheaply in America,” Samuel had pointed out. “The opportunities for trade are sure to grow.” They had also discussed where he should go. Many families they knew had settled in New England, others in Delaware, New York, or even down as far as southern Carolina. There were Ulster settlers all the way down the Eastern Seaboard. But Samuel had expressed a preference for Philadelphia.
“You are still determined upon Philadelphia?” John now enquired. He had not entirely approved of Samuel’s choice, objecting: “The place is run by Quakers.”
“There are Presbyterians there,” Samuel reminded him.
Henry decided to come to his aid.
“Philadelphia is a good choice,” he agreed. “It has a fine future. The city has many attractions.” It had not escaped Henry’s notice that a family they knew who had emigrated there some months before had a very pretty daughter. And he gave his younger brother a wink that their brother John failed to see. “But I shall miss you,” he added. “And if you ever change your mind and return, I shall rejoice to have you back again.”
Samuel grinned. If he secretly preferred Henry to their older brother John, it was understandable. As tall as his brother, Henry had thick brown, wavy hair and was always judged to be the most handsome of the three. He was the athlete, too. Hardly any of the young men in Belfast could keep up with him in a race. Though he worked just as hard as John, Henry was easygoing. Yet he was also more adventurous. The women all liked him. Samuel knew a dozen girls who’d be glad to marry Henry, and several times he’d thought his brother was going to choose one of them; but it had seemed to Samuel that something was holding Henry back. It was as if his brother had a plan—no one knew what it was—but something that he meant to accomplish before he settled down.
“With the two of you here, I’m not really needed,” Samuel remarked. “But once I’m established in Philadelphia, I hope we may conduct business together across the Atlantic.”
Henry nodded. Though Samuel did not know it, he and John had already agreed to stake him by sending him a shipload of free goods. As for the business in Ireland, it was true that he and John made a formidable pair. They both knew every aspect of the linen trade, but in recent years John had attended to the supply and manufacture, and Henry to the selling, which reflected their particular talents. If Samuel wants to trade in other commodities, Henry thought, it’ll be me that sees the opportunity, and John who’ll need persuading.
“I must return to my lodgings soon,” said Samuel. “It’s amazing how much there is to do before I leave.”
“Let us pray together, then,” said John Law, “for God’s blessing upon your journey, and all that you may undertake.”
And so, with quiet affection, the three brothers prayed together for a little while, as they had always been taught to do.
After Samuel had gone, Henry remained with his brother.
It was quiet. Neither man spoke for a time. Henry watched his brother thoughtfully. Though John never showed his emotions, it was clear that he was melancholy. Perhaps he had been secretly hoping that Samuel would not go. Henry had never been in any doubt that Samuel was leaving, but you never knew with John. He stayed awhile, therefore, to keep him company.
And for another reason, also.
He had been wondering all day whether to give his brother the other piece of unwelcome news, or whether to wait. On balance, he thought it was kinder to let him absorb all the bad news at once.
“We shall have to consider how best to carry on the business when Sam is gone,” he said at last.
“Yes.” John nodded.
“I believe Dublin will be important for us.”
The linen trade had been growing rapidly not only in Ulster, but down in Leinster also. The new Linen Hall in Dublin was already a thriving centre of the trade, and in recent months Henry had made a number of visits to the capital. “There is even more linen being shipped out of Dublin nowadays than out of Belfast,” he had reported. “I think we should have a second business down in Dublin as well,” he now continued. “You have everything so well in hand here, John, that you scarcely have need of me; but if I went down there, we could greatly expand our affairs.”
Since all this was entirely true, there was no need to say that, without the presence of Samuel to act as a buffer between them, Henry would have found his brother’s solemn and sometimes overbearing presence too difficult to live with.
“So you, too, are leaving me.” John nodded slowly.
“Not leaving, John.”
“There is much truth in what you say,” John continued quietly. “I don’t deny it.” It was clear that he was not deceived. He knew very well that, behind his brother’s genial charm, there was also an ambitious mind, just as ruthlessly determined as he was, and who would find it irksome to take orders from an elder brother. He knew he should not be hurt. “I should come to Dublin to help you set up the manufacture,” he could not help adding.
“Ah.” Realising the hint of reluctance in his own voice, Henry added quickly: “There is no man who could give me better advice, John, in all Ireland.”
“It will be strange not to have you here,” John said sadly.
“Dublin is not far from Belfast. I shall be coming back and forth all the time.”
“There is another consideration.” John’s voice showed his concern. “It is easier by far to be a Presbyterian in Ulster than it is in Dublin. Here we ar
e many, and strong, whereas in Dublin . . .” He looked at Henry searchingly. “It will be hard for you, Brother.”
Henry returned his gaze evenly. He had given this part of the matter much thought. He gave him a reassuring smile.
“I shall be in God’s hands,” he said.
It wasn’t exactly a lie.
It was Tidy who saw them coming down the lane. He recognised Walsh at once. Fortunatus was riding a handsome chestnut gelding and leading a packhorse. He wore a long coat and a battered old three-cornered hat. But you could see at once, thought Tidy, that he was a gentleman.
Of all the seventeen living grandchildren of Faithful Tidy, Isaac Tidy was one of the poorest. He was short, with oily, crinkly yellow hair, and he stooped forward. But he had his standards. As a youth he had tried several occupations. He had worked for a printer, for he could read and write, but he had disliked the long hours of drudgery and the smell of printer’s ink. He had looked for a position as a verger or sexton in a church. And it was while doing so that he had encountered no less a personage than the Dean of Saint Patrick’s Cathedral, who had taken him on as his manservant. The position, it might be thought, was somewhat menial for a man whose grandfather, he quietly let you know, had been Chapter Clerk of Christ Church. “I would not have done it,” he told his family, “for any other man.” Nobody in Dublin would have denied that Dean Jonathan Swift was a man of quite particular stature. And so completely did Tidy identify with his master and his exalted position, so indispensable did he make himself, and so well aware was everybody of his own, not-to-be-sneezed-at ancestry, that when even the junior clergy addressed him as Mr. Tidy, he took it as no more than his due. And if there was one thing Isaac Tidy liked, it was a gentleman.
For Irish society, as far as Tidy was concerned, was divided into two, and only two, classes. There was “the quality,” or “the gintry,” as he, like many Irishmen, pronounced it; and there was the rest. This single line of demarcation, as mighty and defensive as the Great Wall of China, crossed many social terrains. Dean Swift, a man of birth and education, was gintry, and Tidy wouldn’t have served him his claret otherwise. Fortunatus Walsh, the Old English, Protestant member of the Dublin Parliament, with his Fingal estate, was also, obviously, gintry, and so, therefore, was his brother Terence the doctor, despite being a papist. Indeed, even a native Irish Catholic, so long as he was a landowner, or a man of wealth with some plausible claim to princely ancestry, might qualify. But most people you met in the street did not.