Once they arrived, Edmund surveyed the scene; the bonfire was surrounded by a pleasant, grassy verge, with plenty of room to accommodate everyone, with a special place set aside for gentlewomen. Edmund announced, “Mary, I trust you are reassured that this event has been well arranged. I think we have nothing to fear from the crowds. I believe I will return to the house and bring Thomas. It is not every day one can witness such a sight.”
“Oh, very well, Edmund, if your object is to teach him that all he need do is weep and wail and his parents will give in, you may as well go. I shall wait here.” Edmund turned and ran down the hill to fetch his oldest son, while Mary entered the ladies’ enclosure and spotted the tall, formidable form of Mrs. Malcolm.
“A goodly turnout, Mrs. Bertram,” Mrs. Malcolm observed, “and I see many of our Catholic friends here. Surely some of them, or their fathers, were praying for the French to invade this country and overthrow the English, and much happiness it would have brought them, I’m sure. But that is all behind us now and who can resist a good bonfire? And there is your Captain Templeton, I perceive, looking quite martial, indeed.”
Mary wanted to protest that Captain Templeton was not “her” captain, but feared she would merely sound coy. An encounter could not be avoided this evening; all the officers made a point of visiting the ladies’ enclosure to pay their respects and show themselves off in their uniforms.
“Captain Templeton!” said Mrs. Malcolm. “We ladies are dazzled by the fine uniforms we see tonight.” The captain placed one gloved hand on his sword-pommel and made a bow, while Mary looked off into the distance, to attest to her entire indifference to gold braid, cockades and epaulets.
“You sir, have good reason to rejoice that Napoleon is defeated at least,” added another lady, “for it is our fighting men of England who have borne the burden.”
Templeton assumed a noble expression and said, “We must console ourselves with the thought that the tremendous sacrifices made in the field have spared our nation yet greater effusions of blood.”
“Oh, yes! So true, so very true, captain!” cried another admirer.
Mary, having read the exact same passage in the newspaper that morning, said nothing, but a smile of contempt curled her lip.
“And yet,” Templeton continued, “there are a great many people in Ireland, who were admirers of Napoleon, once upon a time, who opposed the war and every measure supporting it.”
“And in England as well,” said Mrs. Malcolm.
“Or, they may have called themselves patriots but they stayed safely at home,” said Templeton. “By the bye, Mrs. Bertram, where is your husband?”
“We are all obliged to the brave gentlemen of the army and the navy,” said Mary stiffly.
“And none but the brave deserve the fair, or so I have been told,” Templeton replied. “Excuse me ladies, but I have my small part to play in tonight’s entertainment. With your permission, I will take my leave.” He bowed and strolled away, whistling “Rule Britannia.”
There had been some debate, amongst the organisers of the evening, concerning who should have the honour of lighting the bonfire. The Marquess of Donegall and his lady were not in residence. The mayor had declined, for he did not wish to offend the sensibilities of the Presbyterians who saw the bonfire as a relic of paganism. Finally someone proposed the name of Captain Templeton, and although many members of the local militia were privately disappointed at being passed over, they did not wish to be seen to press their own, more modest, claims against an officer who had marched with Wellington.
The crowds were ranged in a ring all around the great pyre, and most of them, save for excitable boys, were standing at a sensible distance. A few members of the militia sounded a tattoo on their drums and Captain Templeton stepped up to a little platform built for the occasion. He favoured the crowd with a short address, but even at his highest volume, which was not inconsiderable, his eloquence was caught by only those nearest to him and was difficult to distinguish from the general hubbub. He brayed a few words about “the late splendid and decisive victory (cheers) which has been achieved by the valour of our soldiers (cheers) animated and directed by the consummate skill of Field Marshal the Duke of Wellington (ecstatic cheers).”
Then came the moment—how the boys pranced and yelled—the Captain called for the torch, and then advanced, holding it proudly aloft with one arm while with the other he waved in the direction of the ladies’ section. There was a collective intake of breath as the gallant Captain thrust his torch into the pyre—there was seen a flicker here and there—the Captain retired, and rejoined his fellow officers in the militia.
The flames, contrasted against the falling darkness as they climbed and clawed upwards, were indeed mesmerising, but Mary’s gaze followed Captain Templeton as he walked away. She suddenly realised that chance had offered her an opportunity to speak to him privately. His latest display of insolent familiarity had to be addressed.
She offered an awkward excuse to the other ladies—something about looking for Mrs. Ritchie—and left the ladies’ enclosure, darting swiftly this way and that through the crowd, moving from one group of spectators to another. No-one remarked her; all eyes were drawn to the growing pillar of flame. She passed two young men parading about with a straw effigy of Bonaparte, and a rabble of little children dancing after them, in happy anticipation of his immolation.
Mary continued to circle around the fire, searching for the captain. A tremendous ovation arose when the flames reached the top of the brush-pile, but Mary scarcely noticed. Some minutes elapsed before she finally saw him at some distance from the
