What did it mean? She left the garden. None of the people on the pavement seemed to have seen the rocket. She walked to the railings of Leinster House and made her way round to St. Stephen's Green. Here she saw several people looking up at the sky; but nobody was doing anything. She wondered if she should walk towards the Castle to see what was going on. It was only a ten-minute walk. Or should she go back and call for her carriage again? She hesitated. The feeling that had been with her all day had become even more insistent now. That rocket was a portent of something terrible. She was sure of it.

She hadn't been there five minutes when she saw the hansom cab come hurtling from the eastern end of the Green and race round to the door of Hercules's house. She saw a figure hurry up the steps and pull the bell furiously. When the door was opened, the figure said something, then hurried back to the waiting cab. Moments later, a figure in a long, slightly shabby greatcoat, and with a hat pulled down over his face, came bounding down the steps and leaped into the cab, which dashed away again with a clatter.

Though he was oddly dressed, she recognized her son at once. She turned, hurried back to Merrion Square, and called for her carriage at once. She was so perturbed that she waited for it outside. While waiting, she was almost certain she heard, in the distance, the sound of a pistol shot.

Lord Mountwalsh glared at him.

"What the devil happened?"

"I don't know, my lord."

"Go to the Castle. I told them ten. I'll have to make sure they know it's begun."

It was only minutes before they reached the Castle gates. It was obvious at once that the garrison had been alerted by the rocket. The main gate was already closed and a detachment of troops was forming up. A brief word with the officer on duty was enough.

"That'll do. On to Thomas Street," cried Hercules.

Finn considered a moment.

"Too late, my lord. They'll have gone down to Coal Quay by now," he said, "to collect the Wexford men. It could be dangerous," he added. But Hercules only gave him a look of contempt.

"To the quays then as fast as you can," he called to the cabby. "All we need," he reminded O'Byrne coldly, "is a clear sight of my son. Nothing else matters now."

There had been perhaps three hundred men at the Thomas Street depot. A good number had followed Emmet out into Thomas Street. Others looked for the attacking troops, but when they did not see them, retreated back inside.

A short while later, the fellows from Plunkett Street, who'd seen the signal, arrived in haste. The men in the depot quickly supplied them with pikes and arms, and the Plunkett Street party set off after Emmet.

But Robert Emmet's progress towards the Castle had not gone well. His men were nervous and losing heart.

"Come, boys, now is your time for Liberty," he cried, and fired a pistol into the air to encourage them. But as they went along the street, they were hesitating, breaking up into groups, and melting into the alleyways. As they came in sight of the cathedral precincts, Emmet looked round and discovered that he had not twenty men.

There was nothing to be done, and he knew it. To his right lay Francis Street, which led southwards out of the city.

"This way, boys," he said sadly, and started down the road towards the distant Wicklow Mountains.

When the Plunkett Street party came down towards the cathedral only minutes later, they could not find him; and so they, too, broke up into groups and wandered away into the night. It was just as well. The firepower now waiting at the Castle was formidable.

That left only the Wexford men, down by the quay.

O'Byrne and Lord Mountwalsh had been waiting by an alley for almost half an hour. The hansom cab was waiting round the corner, not far away.

As soon as they had arrived, they had ascertained that the Wexford men had yet to move, so they had positioned themselves sensibly so that they would see the Thomas Street contingent when they approached. There was even a lamppost nearby, so that they would get a good look at their faces.

But nothing had happened. After a little while, Hercules had begun to be impatient. By now, he was hardly able to stand still. Yet if they moved now, there was always the chance that they'd miss their quarry just as they passed. Finally, one of the Wexford men ran past them up the lane in the direction of the depot. No doubt they, too, wanted to know what was going on. A little while later, he came back and they heard him call: "They've gone. The depot's empty."

Beside him, Finn heard the earl's muttered curse.

"Come," he hissed, and turned back towards the cab. As they hurried along, Finn could sense the earl trembling with rage in the darkness. "Take me to Thomas Street," he ordered as soon as they reached the cab. "Show me the place."

When they got to the depot, it was just as the Wexford man had said. The mess was remarkable: pikes, swords, even the valuable flintlocks were strewn on the floor. There were pouches of shot, kegs of gunpowder . . . and not a living soul. The last of Emmet's men had fled.

It was frighteningly clear by now that Hercules's rage was rising to the point of danger. He picked up some of Emmet's manifestoes, which were piled on a table, and flung them furiously to the floor. For a terrifying moment, Finn thought he was going to kick a keg of gunpowder. Then he unleashed his fury upon O'Byrne.

"You villain!" he shouted. "You've deliberately led me on a wild-goose chase."

"Would I do such a thing, your lordship? I swear by all the saints . . ."

"Damn your saints," roared the earl. "You Irish rogue, you papist dog! You liar. You think you can double-cross me? Where is Emmet? Where is my son?"

"I do not know," cried Finn in vexation.

"Then I will tell you this." The earl's voice was suddenly cold with fury. "If Emmet and my son are taken and executed, well and good. You, of course, will get nothing. Not a penny. But you will keep your life. But if they escape, then I shall know that you were in league with them." He brought his face close to Finn's. "Remember, O'Byrne, I have seen you here. I know you were one of the rebels, and I shall testify to it." He brought his face even closer, and whispered with deadly intensity: "I will see you hang."

Then he turned on his heel.

"My lord," Finn was at his heel, "we'll take the cab to the Castle. They may be there. You shall see them."

"Damn the cab," cried Hercules unreasonably. "And damn you. I'd rather walk."

"But the fare, my lord," Finn wailed. God knows what the fare would be, with all this time gone. "The fare."

"Pay it yourself," called back his lordship contemptuously.

And in that he made the rich man's mistake, in forgetting the hugeness of a cab fare to the poor. It was a fatal mistake.

For now, as he gazed, speechless, after Lord Mountwalsh, something snapped in Finn O'Byrne. He suddenly realized that he still had the folding pike under his coat. Taking it out, he snapped it open. Hercules heard the sound just before he reached the gate of the yard, and turned-only in time to see O'Byrne rushing at him with the great, gleaming blade of the pike pointing straight at his stomach. He tried, without success, to ward it off as the blade sliced with a ripping sound through his coat, and he felt a huge, fiery pain in his bowels. He sank down on his knees. Finn had his foot against his chest. He was dragging the pike out. Hercules felt another massive pain, heard a sucking sound. Then he saw the terrible, bloody blade of the pike flashing down towards his neck, and felt a blow like a thunderbolt bursting upon him.

Finn stood back. Lord Mountwalsh's body was pumping blood onto the ground. He watched it, quivering. Good. He hoped Emmet and his men had succeeded in breaking into the Castle and done the same to all the cursed Englishmen there.

After all, he might have betrayed Emmet, but at least he liked him.

He looked around. It would be better not to leave the body here. On the other hand, he couldn't drag it out into the street. At one point, he observed, the wall of the yard was only six feet high. He stood on a box and looked over. A small compost heap lay below the other side, at the end of an unkempt piece of waste ground. He went inside, fetched a ladder, and rolled the earl's body onto it. Dragging the ladder and raising the free end onto the wall, he was able then, without too much difficulty, to pull the corpse up a few feet until he had Mountwalsh draped over the wall. With a little lifting and manoeuvring of the ladder, he was able to tip it over so that it fell with a soft thud on the other side. He took off his blood-stained coat and tossed that over, too, along with the pike. Then he wiped the blood off the ladder and replaced it in the house. He found a basin and a pitcher of water in which he washed his hands. He splashed some water on his boots. On the back of a chair in the main room, he saw young Emmet's coat. He didn't suppose Emmet would be needing it now.

When he came back into the yard, he found the cabby waiting there.

"Are you gentlemen done?" the fellow asked.

"Those gentlemen are gone," he replied. "You know who I am?"

"No, Sir."

"I am Robert Emmet, but you never saw me here. Otherwise, you're a dead man."

"All right, Sir. But who'll be paying the fare?"

"Fare? You did it for the cause." He actually gave a fair imitation of Emmet's tones. "Now, go."

"Not without my fare."

"Indeed?" There was a sword lying at his feet. He stooped, picked it up, and rushed at the cabby, who fled into the street. The fellow was so frightened that he didn't even jump onto his coachman's seat, but ran eastwards, towards the city.

It was time to go. Tossing the sword back into the yard, Finn O'Byrne crossed the street. Moments later, he had vanished.

Georgiana was grim-faced. Her coachman was getting nervous. He still had no idea why his mistress was out like this, but things were getting ugly.

A little while ago, in the streets below Christ Church, they had encountered a large group of men who had stopped the coach and asked, politely enough, if they had seen a young man leading a party of men. "I'm looking for someone, too," she had told them, and described William. But they didn't know him. "Where are you from?" she'd asked. Wexford, they told her, and went on their way. But by now, the streets seemed to be filling with mobs in a very different kind of mood.

"Drive up there," she ordered.

"That'll take us into the Liberty, my lady," the coachman warned. But she made him do it.

The word of the rising had spread like wildfire. Some of the men drinking at the inns still had their weapons with them. Mobs, often half drunk, were forming in the streets, shouting for the rebellion.

Georgiana didn't care. She'd been to the Castle area where the military patrols were out, and she'd been down by the quays. Now she meant to try the Liberties. If there was any chance of catching sight of her grandson, she wasn't giving up. They crossed Francis Street. Several times, knots of men and women slowed their progress and even knocked against the side of the carriage. But when a fellow gave her coachman a thoughtful dig in the ribs with his pike, she knew she couldn't ask him to go on. "Go down to Thomas Street," she said. "It's bigger than these lanes, and we'll go back to Christ Church from there."

But now, as they came out into Thomas Street, they found their way barred. A crowd of several hundred had gathered. And from their shouts and curses it was obvious that they were in a vicious mood. They had just stopped a carriage in the middle of the street. Some of the men were carrying lanterns. By their light, she saw a flash of pikes. The coachman was trying to whip his horses forward, but some of the men had caught them by the bridle. They were forcing one of the carriage doors open, dragging an elderly gentleman out. Then another man, a clergyman by the look of him. She heard screams. They were starting to trample the old man. Then, as if of their own volition, over the heads of the crowd, she saw several pike blades moving towards the spot. She saw one of the blades dip. Then another. The crowd roared. They had just skewered the clergyman.

Her own coachman was trying to back the horses up to turn the carriage, but like a tide, the crowd was running back and flowing round them. There was a hammering on the door.

There was nothing else to do. She pulled down the window and showed her face.

"What is it you want?" she called out.

"A woman. It's a woman," somebody cried out. A man leaped up and poked his head inside. "It's just a woman," he called out. And the crowd slowly parted as her carriage moved through. She tried not to look at where the two men who had been butchered lay. The carriage rolled slowly towards Christ Church.

The assault, when it came, was so sudden that she didn't even have time to be frightened. The man ran out, leaped up to her door, and adroitly swung himself in before she could even scream. The coachman didn't even see it. She gasped and prepared to defend herself. But the intruder threw himself back into the seat.

"Go down Winetavern Street, quickly," said a voice that was familiar. And with a flood of relief, she realized it was John MacGowan.

He did not explain, just quietly gave her directions for the coachman. In moments, they were going westward again, in the area by the quays, then turning up a narrow lane until he asked her to stop by a dark alley.

"Tell the coachman to wait, and whatever you see, don't say a word," he said.

He disappeared into the alley and was gone a little while. At last he reappeared, almost carrying a figure with a bandage round his head. He pushed the figure into the carriage and called up to the coachman: "My nephew. Those rebels set upon him. It'll be safest if you go back along the quays towards College Green."

Once back in the carriage, he leant down to the figure on the floor, who had just let out a groan, and whispered: "Keep quiet, for the love of God. You're in your grandmother's carriage now, and it's all over." Then he exchanged a few urgent whispers with Georgiana, who, as they came to College Green, said loudly so that the coachman should hear: "You'll do no such thing. You'll bring the young man to my house for the night." And she ordered the coachman: "Drive straight home."

In her house, it was easy enough to get the bandaged young man up the candlelit stairs to a bedroom, without anyone having the least idea who he was. There MacGowan remained with him, while Georgiana and the coachman related to the servants how nearly they had all been killed by the rebels who had also assaulted her friend's nephew. When the cook had prepared a bowl of stew and a jug of claret, Georgiana insisted on taking it up to the invalid herself.

"I had to give him quite a bang on the head with my pistol," MacGowan explained when the three of them were alone. "Then I gagged him and tied him up in the alley, and prayed no one found him before I could get back. I thought I'd have to get a cart from my house when, by God's providence, I recognized your carriage.

"But the rising . . ." William began weakly.

"It's over, William. You could see it was collapsing before Emmet left. There's nothing but some drunks in the street, who have killed several innocent people, and who nearly killed your grandmother. You must rest now. Nobody knows who you are, and that's for the best. We'll decide what to do when we know more in the morning."

It was Georgiana who devised the plan. The following morning, she went to the Castle herself to ask for information. She then declared loudly to the officials there, and to her servants when she got home, that she wasn't staying another day in Dublin if the government couldn't keep better order than that; and she practically ordered MacGowan to accompany her to Mount Walsh, and to bring his nephew with him. By late morning, they were on their way.

They spent the night at Wicklow, where MacGowan made some enquiries. In the morning, capriciously, Lady Mountwalsh decided to board a vessel which was leaving for Bristol that day. MacGowan's nephew went with her as a servant. When they disembarked at Bristol, the young man changed his identity again, between the dock and the inn, so that he now became her grandson William. A week after that, with personal letters to her relations in Philadelphia and letters of credit to several merchant houses, the Honourable William Walsh, who so far as anyone knew hadn't been in Ireland for years, embarked on a ship bound for America.

"As soon as it's certain that no one has given you away, you can return," she told him.

The rising of Robert Emmet was very brief. As a rising, it was an utter failure. The Wexford men, after looking for him half the night, melted away like the rest. Russell, Hamilton, and their friends found the men of Ulster sceptical-with good reason-and Ulster did not rise. The mobs in the Dublin streets were dispersed by troops in the end, with some loss of life, but not before they had killed several innocent people, including the judge and clergyman whose murder Georgiana had witnessed. About a dozen men with pikes were arrested, most of whom were later executed. Some others were transported. But that was all. For weeks the government expected a larger insurrection.

But there was none, and the leadership was gone, and Napoleon looked elsewhere. With only two exceptions, the leaders of the revolt vanished abroad.

Emmet remained. Though racked by a sense of guilt at the useless deaths he had caused, his main reason for continuing to reside near Rathfarnham was the presence of Sarah Curran, the girl he was courting there. He begged her to elope with him to America, and had she agreed, he would have emigrated and become no more than a footnote to history. As it was, more than a month after the rising, he was found and arrested.

The sixteen-year-old girl who had acted as his housekeeper was also thrown in jail. Since she was only the daughter of a farmer, she was interrogated and lightly tortured. The authorities made clear their nicety of feeling, however, when it came to Sarah Curran: as the daughter of a gentleman, she was, of course, only questioned most politely. She was not unpunished, though, for loving Robert Emmet. Her father, a lawyer with liberal ideas, being now desirous of showing his loyalty to the government, threw her out of his house and cut her off entirely.

There was one other casualty. Russell, who had urged that the rising should go ahead, and who had failed to rouse Ulster, returned to Dublin in a futile bid to rescue Emmet from jail, was caught, and was executed. Some of his friends thought he was seeking martyrdom.

But to Georgiana, it was truth which was the greatest casualty. It was not long before the government, reverting to ancient prejudice, declared that the rising had been a strictly Catholic affair. "How they can say it," MacGowan pointed out to her, "when Emmet is a Protestant-as, indeed, is every single one of the leading conspirators-I cannot understand." Even the conservative Roman Church was accused of complicity, since, it was argued, the conspirators must surely have told their priests all about it in the confessional. The spirit of Hercules was still very alive in the Ascendancy.

But the person of Lord Mountwalsh was very dead indeed.

A week went by before a certain smell caused neighbours to seek out the spot where he lay. By then, his disappearance from his household had been well known. Georgiana herself had gone to make the identification. That one of the rebels should have killed such a hated Ascendancy figure was not surprising, but how he came there was a mystery. His servants knew he had left in a hurry. And a military patrol, discovering the depot late on the night of the rising, had reported finding an empty hansom cab waiting at the place. But the cab had vanished later, and the cabby was never heard from. So the thing remained a riddle, and Georgiana herself was not inclined to pursue the matter.

"And the fact is," she would often remark as the years went by, "that it's young Emmet who, after all, has triumphed."

For if Robert Emmet in life had been unfortunate, history had prepared him a place among the heroes. That September, at his trial, he scorned to defend himself; but then, the jury having found him guilty, he claimed the last word by making a speech which all Ireland heard, and which even his accusers admired.

"I was there," Georgiana liked to remind people. "The judge tried to interrupt him, but he had his say. And what a gift he had. I've heard Grattan, and many others, but he would have surpassed them all."

Using the material he had already worked up in his manifesto, but adding to it the passionate inspiration of the final moment, he drew his rising together and launched it into the annals of national legend with his peroration. He asked only, he declared, to depart in silence; his noble motives need not be explained.

Let them and me repose in obscurity and peace, and my tomb remain uninscribed, until other times, and other men, can do justice to my character; when my country takes her place among the nations of the earth, then, and not till then, let my epitaph be written.

His words would echo, and never cease to echo, in Ireland's mind thereafter.

In March of the following year, young William Walsh, residing in Philadelphia, was greatly surprised to receive a letter from his grandmother telling him firstly that, all enquiries into the rising having ceased without any mention of his name, it was safe for him to return. And secondly, that he should do so at once, since he was already the Earl of Mountwalsh.