Secret Service Under Pitt — Text and Context

Voice and Performance in the Courtroom

The excerpts showcase Fitzpatrick's ear for dialogue and his skill in rendering legal proceedings with dramatic flair. In one scene, the actor Gladstone argues that performers are 'servants' entitled to payment, citing the Lord Chancellor's ruling on Drury Lane Theatre. The exchange is crisp and confrontational, with McNally pressing Gladstone on the respectability of his trade. Fitzpatrick presents such moments not merely as records but as performances in themselves, where the barrister's questioning becomes a kind of theatre. The author notes that McNally's speeches as a 'democratic orator' displayed him 'to best dramatic effect,' suggesting that the courtroom and the political platform were stages for his double life. The narrative voice shifts between detached reportage and wry commentary, as when Fitzpatrick observes that McNally 'feigned features which he did not possess.' This layering of observation and inference gives the prose a knowing, almost conspiratorial tone.

The Spy's Shifting Persona

Fitzpatrick builds McNally's character through anecdotes that highlight his calculated ambiguity. Colleagues at the bar would tease him about the sums he claimed to earn from the play 'Robin Hood,' a process that 'quintupled the original' through exaggerated details. Yet the author warns that anyone detected in this 'waggery' faced McNally's pistol. The barrister's missing thumbs became a subject of endless speculation, with McNally finally exclaiming, 'I don't know how I lost them!'—a remark Fitzpatrick dismisses as too convenient. The narrative suggests that McNally cultivated an air of 'awkward simplicity' to disarm others, while his 'eyes and voice pierced you through like arrows.' This portrait of a man who controlled his own legend is reinforced by the author's refusal to accept Phillips's account of McNally's naivety, insisting instead that the spy was 'too cool and cunning to trip.' The text thus becomes a study in the construction of public identity, where the historian must sift through layers of performance.

Pace and the Texture of Historical Detail

The narrative moves between tight, dramatic scenes and broader historical exposition. A description of Dublin in 1819, when General d'Evereux raised troops for Bolivar, shifts suddenly from the 'gay with plumage' streets to the cold calculation of Dublin Castle, which saw the recruitment as a chance to 'rid the land of those military spirits.' Fitzpatrick's prose here is vivid and economical: 'the city swarmed with stalwart, ruddy youths, clad in uniforms of green and gold, their swords clanking at every step.' Yet he quickly undercuts the romance with the Castle's pragmatic decision to let the statute against foreign enlistment 'lie dormant.' This alternation between colour and cynicism characterises the work's pace, as the author juxtaposes the public spectacle of politics with the private machinations of espionage. The inclusion of doggerel—'L stands for Lysaght, who loves a good joke; M for MacNally, who lives by the rope!'—adds a sardonic note, reminding the reader that even the bar's humour carried a sting.

Fitzpatrick's method rewards readers who attend to the gaps between what is said and what is withheld. The narrative's power lies not in a single revelation but in the accumulation of small, telling details—the barrister's evasions, the Castle's calculations, the actor's dignity. Approach this work as a mosaic of voices and silences, where the historian's own judgments are woven into the fabric of the story.

That rainy afternoon, I kept returning to McNally’s courtroom betrayals, the quiet menace beneath polite words. Later, while drying the pages, my mind drifted to another sort of duplicity—Frederick’s calculated charm amid statecraft. I found myself reaching for the History of Friedrich II of Prussia — Volume 10 — A Reader’s Guide, and the rain seemed to fall differently, slower, as if listening in.