Trinity: A Novel of Ireland

by Leon Uris

  Outside the walled city, William Street was a main artery between Bogside and the commercial center down by the waterfront. The Defense Committee knew out of past experience that William Street was always an avenue of approach during a riot. We were dispatched to the intersection of William and Rosville streets where a makeshift barricade of overturned teamster wagons and piles of junk was being thrown up. Conor and I joined a party of boys gathering up loose rocks, then tearing up the street for paving stones. At the same time Tomas and Fergus worked a few blocks away, evacuating several streets of old pensioners. They were mostly debilitated, unable to defend themselves, and lived in an area that traditionally got the first bashings of a riot.

  Bowie Moran, a hoary old Bogside veteran of a dozen riots, was commander at our barricade and issuing orders like a general of the Crown. By the time our daddies returned, our wall seemed formidable and the pile of rocks and stones was stacked high. There were several dozen men and boys, many armed with clubs and a feeling that we would be safe.

  For an instant there was a murmur of relief as several loads of Constabulary spilled up William Street. "Don't get your hopes up," Bowie said, "they'll be worthless as tits on a boar hog as soon as any fighting starts."

  Just like that, I melted! The black mass of humanity we had seen earlier in the day was storming up from the Strand, filling the street from curb to curb. As Bowie Moran had predicted, the Constabulary faded from sight. Sounds of their howling was even less humanlike than their earlier celebrating. Most of them carried ax handles or barrel staves with big spikes on the end. They flailed at store windows, poured in and hurled merchandise into the streets, then set everything afire.

  They inched past our barricade with neither side opening up, then went at the evacuated houses, battering their way in. In a few moments the air stunk up with columns of black smoke. Some of our lads wanted to take the fight outside the barricade but Bowie made them hold fast. The Constabulary, he said, was just waiting to pick off our strays.

  By dusk every Catholic business around William Street was in a shambles and an entire block of thirty houses had been burned to the ground. Having finished off the undefended properties, they turned toward the barricade and came at us in waves, hauling missiles and screaming.

  "Death to the papist pigs!"

  "Down croppies!”

  "Fuck the Pope!"

  "Murder the traitors!"

  About this time, quite frankly I peed in my pants and Was wishing Fergus had talked Tomas into removing us earlier. It was like. . . well. . . in a dream of sorts. . . wave after wave running up and bombarding us.

  "Bottle bombs!" Bowie cried.

  The burnables on the barricade went up in flames and we staggered back, coughing and trying to stamp out the fires. In they poured! A fusillade of stones landed right in our midst. I was screaming over my daddy, who had fallen, and was trying to drag him back. The full terror crashed on me as I saw Tomas Larkin laying on his back awful still with blood pouring from his head. Above me the black wave was on our barricade and a crossfire of missiles blotted out the sunlight. Some men pulled Tomas and my daddy back to safety. As the Orange pierced our barricade they were met with paving bricks. Blood was all over the street and men running around holding their heads and groveling or laying still. Others flailed at each other maniacally.

  Conor stood at Bowie's side fighting like he was ten men and I’ve got to say I was doing some pretty fancy rock throwing myself. We pressed them back and caught their next wave cold but they came again.

  Tomas Larkin, half dead though he was, stormed out in front, picking Prods up over his head and hurling them back through the air. He was a wild man and turned us all into the same, as we burst over the barricade and chased them down William Street, which was now littered with dozens of their wounded. They regrouped and came back one more time, bending us back to the snapping point. We were saved by a roving squad of the Defense Committee who were experts with slingshots and inflicted terrible punishment.

  Although our position was never assaulted en masse again, we could hear the sounds of smashing glass and screams until darkness brought a new kind of terror. The night wore on with tantalizing slowness and was filled with vile curses from the Orangemen and small sneak attacks. From the top of Derry's walls a torrent of missiles and torches poured down endlessly on the Bogside, burning several more rows of shacks.

  The Prods were able to make momentary penetrations through the other barricades but the mobile squad of slingshotters did a nasty piece of work on them.

  British troops had been sitting in their barracks across the river all night. They were even more worthless than the Constabulary. The soldiers didn't move in till dawn when it was realized the Bogside Defense Committee had broken the Orange backs. I guess no one expected it. When the authorities counted casualties, the Prods had received more than they dealt out and the sport was called off.

  William Street stood ankle deep in shattered glass and debris and other approaches to the Bogside were worse. Eighty houses had been burned out, five Catholics killed and hundreds injured. The Army and Constabulary clamped a lid on Bogside to make certain we wouldn't break out and go after Protestant areas.

  It was the look in the eyes of our fathers that was the saddest of it all. They had brought us to Derry to show us Orange hatred but they had not expected this. They were admitting to us that this was our legacy, the tarnishing of dreams, the finality of what was real in Ireland.

  As for Conor and me, it was the moment we lost our innocence forever.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The response to the Reverend Maclvor's sermons had been overwhelming both in the Cathedral and later at a rousing open-air meeting in the diamond. It proved to be just the shot in the arm needed in the face of a growing croppy threat, that reaffirmation of the ancient cause and a clarion call for a crusade. A number of the Orangemen had growled discontent lately over the growing defensive nature and siege mentality of their own Presbyterian preachers and the wishy-washy thin-blooded Anglican Church.

  Maclvor was a no-nonsense fundamentalist of fire and verve, a Godlike man, a holy man. Major Hamilton Walby, who had once disdained this sort of evangelism, saw its inspirational effects and realized it could be converted into a tremendous and desperately needed political asset. Walby implored Maclvor to remain in the district for several more meetings. O. C. Maclvor agreed, for he was now in the business of making spiritual loans to be collected at great interest in the future.

  By the time the riots had broken out, the Hubbles and Weed were safely back at the Manor. Lord Arthur left for Daars that same night on the gallop.

  For two days before the Apprentice Boys celebration, Lord Roger and Sir Frederick tested the waters of a general scheme devised to tie Londonderry to Belfast in the event Ulster went its separate way from Ireland in the future. Some broad ideas were agreed on in principle of a nature that paved the way for serious negotiations.

  Then a coolness set in. Roger had obviously been annoyed over Caroline's failure to show up. The thought of her on a fling in Paris grated him. It hit bottom on Apprentice Boys Day, which proved an extremely unpleasant affair, due in large part to Weed's orchestration of the event.

  Sir Frederick sensed that his delicate talks with Roger might slip away and decided to take the bull by the horns before leaving for Belfast.

  An hour before departure he was postured in his suite totally relaxed and waiting for an opening. Roger gave him none and time was running out. "See here," he said, "I've a notion you've something on your chest and before I go tooting off I'd like to leave here knowing we've come to some solid understandings."

  "Nothing, really nothing," Roger retorted.

  "Come on, old man, you're in a snit about something. Caroline?"

  "Not at all," Roger answered too quickly.

  "What is it then?"

  "I guess we'd better have a go," Roger allowed, "if we're to continue our dialogue. I am distressed over that preach
er you brought here and I am distressed over the riots he created singlehanded."

  Weed smiled. "I shouldn't be if I were you. You must have heard all the praise you've come in for."

  "That's exactly what distresses me. Why should people be rejoicing over all that bloodshed?"

  "Because they're aroused, Roger. Because they heard what they wanted to hear. Because they don't feel so abandoned now."

  Roger shook his head. "Gives one leave to wonder. They're treating him like a messiah. Good Lord, where did you ever find that horrible creature?"

  Sir Frederick shrugged, undressed and caressed a cigar. "You know how it is in Belfast. Anyone with a gift of gab and ten quid can rent a tent and get himself certified Baptist, Presbyterian, Methodist, or whatever in a matter of a few months."

  "The man incited a riot," Roger said, still in disbelief.

  "Regrettable," Weed mumbled insincerely. "Roger, I don't want to seem presumptuous but you are just taking your first political steps out of swaddling clothes. As well as you know the province, it's still in an incubated, isolated and sterile state of mind. You've sensed the need to join up in the struggle to hold Ulster, but I don't think you quite understand that in this day and age we simply can't call out the military when we get in trouble, Gladstone and all that bloody Liberalism have changed that. We have to depend on masses of people, repugnant as it may be. Our base of power is Protestant unity, the Orange Order, if you will. What our good Ulster folk lack in culture and sophistication they make up in assumed piety. It's a simple sort of mentality which has to be kept fed and happy with a few crumbs of old-fashioned Jesus sprinkled on their daily porridge. Maclvor, repulsive as he may be to you and me, knows how to say exactly what they want to hear and there is no better way to keep those people unified than to put them in a state of righteous outrage . . . the holy grail . . . the crusade . . . that sort of nonsense."

  A servant entered to say that Sir Frederick's private train had arrived at a siding near the Manor. Roger curtly ordered the man out and shoveled at his hair, dismayed. "This may be common practice in Belfast, but I will not condone deliberate use of the riot here."

  Sir Frederick came from his chair, buttoned his vest and walked to Roger, placing a patronizing hand on his shoulder. "Like it or not, the Oliver Cromwell Maclvors are the most potent weapon in our arsenal."

  Roger walked off, then came back in gray-eyed anxiety. "Did you ever stop to think what would happen if Oliver Cromwell Maclvor were to decide to take over?"

  Weed laughed. "That's entirely impossible. He's completely under my control, completely beholden. He knows that."

  "For the time being, maybe. You said yourself he's a cunning, ambitious, ruthless and gifted devil. I watched him closely for three days. He hates us. Until two days ago he couldn't buy his way into Hubble Manor or the Londonderry Cathedral. He hates us because he knows we see through him and his hogwash and he knows we are only using him to serve our purposes. But I tell you that somewhere in the back of that warped, black little mind he aspires to win the whole game, take it all over."

  "That's a bit dramatic, what? When you come down to it he's a little more than a talented rabble-rouser and, if it ever comes to a choice, the people would have enough sense to stay with us. They do know where their bread is buttered."

  "But do the people really have enough sense?" Roger questioned. "You heard the rubbish they ate up. It's frightening to think of the hypnotic appeal he has them under and that it could be turned on us."

  "Dear Roger, I assure you the day will never come when the military and the industrialists can't control an O. C. Maclvor. We'll use him only so long as he works his passage in our behalf."

  "Let me assure you just as earnestly that, once he gets his teeth into power, you're going to find him dangerous. He'll have the mob in his pocket and there will be nothing we can do about it. You go along with him now because you think it's for the good of Ulster. Frankly, I think you're flirting with the Devil."

  Weed broke into his most gregarious smile. "Of course I'm flirting with the Devil," he said. "That's what Ulster is all about"

  Roger remained unnerved until the string of servants removed Sir Frederick's luggage. Weed flipped his cigar in the fireplace. "Colonization is a hard game," he said, "but look what we have at stake in Ireland. Are you willing to give it up or do what is necessary?"

  "When does the price become too high? We are knowingly making one repugnant alliance after another with madmen like Maclvor in order to perpetuate an archaic Reformation myth to control the mob, and we're deliberately using hatred and physical violence as a political weapon."

  "Cheer up," Weed said, "that's what we've been doing in one form or another for centuries."

  "And we're creating a mongoloid race. That's what scares me . . . these Ulstermen with their insane religious fervor. It ridicules common sense."

  "Well, the whole thing here ridicules common sense," Frederick Murdoch Weed reckoned. "If that's what we've got to do, then that's what we've got to do, unless you know another way to keep the earldom as part of Ulster and Ulster as part of England."

  Roger threw up his hands. "I sometimes think we are slowly getting strangled in the web of our own intrigue." They walked the long corridor and down the broad stairs. Sir Frederick thanked the personal servants assigned to his comfort and complimented the housekeeper and chief chef, leaving an envelope stuffed with his appreciation. Roger walked to the carriage with him.

  "Well be needing you in the party," Weed said. "I do hope we continue to stay in touch."

  "To preserve the Union . . . yes, I'll be at your service."

  "And, Roger, don't fret too much about the riots. After all, it's a blood sport and as long as they believe the blood is spilled in noble endeavor, what's the harm?"

  "Have a good journey," Roger said, nodding to the driver. He watched the carriage make its way between the long rows of aspens and disappear through the main gate.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I've seen better-looking faces on potatoes than Conor and me and our daddies wore. We were beat and bruised. Neither Conor nor I could lift our right arms, we were that sore from throwing stones. The next days were filled with work, dismantling the barricades, cleaning up the mess, getting the homeless moved into communal shelters to be taken care of. It was a time filled with weeping and rage. Martyrs' funerals were given for the five murdered Catholics with all of Bogside marching behind their coffins and all the tragic pomp and inflamed speeches that went with it.

  British troops were in evidence everywhere and stray bands of Orangemen prowled as we sifted through the ashes in a tentative calm. From Bishop Street Without to Iniscarn Road and from William Street to Brandywell, the lads of the Bogside Defense Committee manned a perimeter.

  The main meeting we had come to Derry for had to be delayed because of the riots and it was just as well because the four of us were in no condition to face the women back home.

  The old Royal Fever Hospital of famine fame at Bligh Lane and Stanley's Walk had long been an abandoned derelict when lack of a decent meeting hall in the Bogside caused a consortium of organizations to revitalize it. Renamed Celtic Hall, it became a communal hub, head quartering the Irish Party as well as the Land League. Its auditorium was small, holding no more than a few hundred souls, but what a sight. There were buntings and green banners with golden harps and even a wee band playing only slightly off-key songs of the risings.

  Conor and I got there early, saving seats in the first row so we could sit at our daddies' feet. The spirit that had successfully defended us two nights before spilled over infectiously. Kevin O'Garvey chaired the meeting with all the candidates grandly arrayed behind him and when each was introduced from Donegal or Tyrone or County Derry, there was a roar and the band played and they spoke in terms of great optimism about the election. There were official reports from various committees, announcements for future rallies and a passing of the hat for funds.

  Things were all
warmed up by the time Kevin O'Garvey introduced the main speaker, who had traveled all the way up from Dublin, and an impressive man he was. His name was Michael Roche and he was dressed to fit his name, a Dublin dandy. A high ranking member of the party, Roche was said to be a close confidant of Parnell himself. Although he was a Catholic, he was obviously cut from different cloth than the Bogsiders and tenant farmers. The Roches were an aristocratic old Norman family who had been among the great Irish earls, but when he spoke, he spoke our language.

  Stinging, dazzling and shouting to the last row, he proclaimed, "We are going to win sixty to sixty-five seats and this time we'll not be shoved around like poor relatives. The Irish Home Rule Party will stand as the balance of power between the Conservatives and Gladstone's Liberals and, by God, we're going to make the ruling power pay the price for our support!"

  Well, that got things going, it did, stirring up the crowd to outbreaks of cheering.

  "If you'll note the cut of my nose and hear the manner of my voice you'll know I'm just another "Paddy." Don't let the fancy clothes and name fool you . . . I'm as much a mick as any man in this hall, and I tremble in awe before no Englishman. I repeat to you from my own experience in Westminster that no Englishman will ever really understand us, but as long as we have to deal with them, Gladstone is the best dog in the litter. Gladstone knows the reality of Irish Home Rule. We will no longer be those shanty, quaint little folk ignored by Her Majesty's councils and ministers. Under Charles Stewart Parnell we will be the shapers of our own destiny!"

  Well, I'll tell you, this got the old blood rushing, with Michael Roche being urged on by the grungy lot of us. He climbed the hill of gains we had made through the Land League and our never ending struggle against the Crown and exhorted the ragged legion before him to double and triple their efforts in the days to come. When he finally got to sitting down, he did so to a standing ovation.