“I often seen you in your uniform. Up in O’Connell Street and outside of Liberty Hall.”
“You haven’t been following me about?”
“No. No. And all my family is buttonmen. You’ve nothing to fear from me.”
Doyler looked into his face. He wished to God if he might find a rag to blow his nose. “I better not have,” he said. “Go on.”
Back at the Hall Doyler wandered along the corridors. He was hungry, he didn’t know was he feeding at all. His feet were bealing from chilblains he had on his heels. He had chilblains on his fingers too.
They were rehearsing a play in the concert room. He watched a while. Connolly had written this play. It had a young fellow, he didn’t know to fight for Ireland or take his shilling with the British Army. In the end he joined the Volunteers. Doyler walked out, stomping on the boards and letting the doors clatter behind him. If Connolly wanted to be writing plays, why wouldn’t he have the fellow join the Citizen Army? He left the Hall, shaking his head. He couldn’t work out what had happened with Connolly.
At drill now there were Volunteer officers let watch their evolutions. They were let sit in on their talks and demonstrations. One time after drill, his captain called him out. He wasn’t satisfied with Doyler’s attitude. Did Doyler think himself above army discipline? Did he think it hilarious to go whacking Volunteer officers on the head?
“I was at me drill. He was in the way.”
His captain gave him the speech on the Volunteers. On true nationalist movements, on working in harmony, on common purposes. Doyler wanted to spit. The Volunteers were a contamination. What did they care for the rights of labor? Was they born Englishmen, they’d be all for King and Empire. Their thinking was wool and dreams, whereas his was hard and severe, hard and severe as the lives of the people.
“You’re getting above yourself, Doyle,” his captain told him. He told him go careful, he had his eye on him now.
Doyler walked along the river, past the Customs House, and along the docks where men were hard at their work still. He nodded to some he knew. One asked was he looking for work, there was something going by the canal he’d heard. Doyler said no, he wasn’t interested tonight.
How many ships had docked at the Liffey? Thousands, he supposed, sure hundreds of thousands, countless. Only one had docked that signified anything to him. That was the foodship Hare that had carried food from the workers of England to the starved and locked-out workers of Dublin. That was a day all right, when she pulled into the quay, all decked with flags and her siren whooping. He could see the crowds so clearly, the faces laughing and cheering and the little children clapping their hands for food. He could not pass along the Dublin quays without thinking of that ship. Imagine it, a ship to bring food where families was starving. Was ever there such a thing? He felt a great tearful love for the people of England that they’d defy everyone, their union bosses even, and come to the aid of their Irish fellows. He would give ten years of his life and gladly to be here that day. Anything at all to be in Dublin for the Lock-out.
But he was already down in Clare that time. Sometimes he would day-dream that he wasn’t in Clare, was a newsboy still. He’d let on he got the bad of a leg that way, out of a baton charge of the peelers. He wouldn’t mind an odd limp getting it some way useful like that. Instead of himself at home beating the leg from under him with the leg of a chair he broke in his temper. And all for the price of him wanting to go to the college. That night he crept out the Banks and he never looked back till he came to Clare. They said then the leg would never mend. They were right too.
He wandered along till it was gone dark. Past yard and mill and warehouse, where men still labored under lights and flares, and boys still pushed their barrows. He heard in the holds of ships that were moored the horrible distress of cattle. He looked up at the sky but he saw no stars to shine. They had the earth to plough all right, but no hope of any stars, no hope at all so far as he could see.
Then, when he was dead on his feet, he made his way back to his tenement kip. The two lads looked at him strange at times. They said his hands moved about in his sleep. More than once he was woke by a thump from one of them.
It turned April and Lent already was half-way gone. They had moved into town, his mother and the shrimpses and himself, bolting the moon out of Glasthule. They’d hunted out a cottage by King Street where they let out the back room. Himself was very poorly now, and when Doyler visited he could see the change that had come about. They had cups to drink out of, the shrimpses each had boots and there was a supply of turf by the fire. His army pension might actually go to some good, with himself on his back and unable to drink it.
His mother sat him by the fire and gave him tea and bread. She was worried the way he looked, was he feeding himself, why wouldn’t he take his meals with them. He wasn’t hardly listening, just looking at the flame of the turf. Then he heard her asking, “What happened with your friend?”
“Nothing, so far as I know.”
“I did at times see him in the street in Glasthule. He looked lonely to me there.” Doyler said nothing. “Wouldn’t you go out a day and swim with him?” his mother went on. He told her he had his duties. “And he the friend of your heart itself?”
“I have no friends now, Ma, beyond the army and the workers that come behind it.”
“Is it that they teach you at Liberty Hall?”
He stared into his Lenten red-headed tea. The shrimpses were crowded round a smoky lamp, the eldest showing the others something in a copy-book. They’d hung an old sheet for a screen. Himself was coughing quietly behind, almost decently, like he didn’t want to be disturbing the visitor. “How is he?” he asked.
“He’s not great.”
“Will I tell you, Ma, what they teach at Liberty Hall? Calvary is what. They have Connolly spouting nonsense about blood and sacrifice. Them poets out of the Volunteers has got to him. I wish to God Jim Larkin would come back.”
“Hasn’t God been good to give you one Jim?”
“Ah, Ma, I’m in the army. Aren’t we training for war sure.”
“A whisper, son—if there’s others unhappy, they won’t be happier for your sorrow. You’d want a long arm and you putting it round an army. You’re lonely to the world I think.”
He came out of the Hall one evening and that quilt of a boots was waiting for him. “Ah no,” said Doyler, “this won’t do at all.”
“Only you said we’d walk together.”
“Lookat, I can’t be dropping everything. Didn’t I say I’d leave word? How d’you know I’m not busy tonight?”
The boots would wait, he didn’t mind waiting. He was happy to wait.
Doyler looked up and down the quay. “All right. I’ll step back with you as far as the Green. That’s all, mind.”
The boots chatted away in his nervy manner. He seemed to want to please with his talk. There had been an attempted raid on Liberty Hall some weeks previous, and the boots was full of the stir of it. “Is it true there was two hundred armed polis?” he asked. Doyler just chucked his head. “They say Mr. Connolly himself stood at the steps with his gun aimed. They say he told the polis the first man moved was a dead man.”
It was true enough. The Hall had been left unguarded for some reason. The peelers came. Connolly kept them at bay while the word went out for mobilization.
“They say all over Dublin there was strange sights of men running through the streets with their bandoliers and rifles on them. You’d have a bandolier,” he said to Doyler. “I’d say you’d have one.”
“Never you mind,” Doyler told him. The boots was obviously after reading it up in a Workers’ Republic.
“The polis soon found they had no business with Liberty Hall,” he went on. “The Citizen Army had them downfaced for sure.”
“For sure,” said Doyler.
“I’d say you was there too, well in the thick.”
Aye he was, and he remembered how the men had come running, in twos
and threes at first, then by their tens and dozens, all in a sweat and filthy from work, some of them wringing wet that had swam the canal in their hurry. The Fianna boys were there already and they were holding hands to form a line, perfectly fearless, between the peelers and the Hall. Then came the Women’s Corps, some of them with their children with them that had no place else to leave them. They didn’t mind the lost wages or the jobs they put at risk. They came to defend their Hall, the one place in all that city they might call their own. He remembered the strange mishmash of weapons they carried—iron bars, hammers, clubs, the odd rifle and bandolier. Shoulder to shoulder they stood before the blue-black mass of peelers. And Doyler had stood with them with his shoed handle of a pick. The pride he felt that day near pained him. Near pained him still. There was a lump in his throat he thought he’d never have it swallowed. These were his people. He was a Citizen soldier.
And Connolly would throw them away. He would give them all, hand and gun, to the Volunteers. They were too right not to trust Doyler with a gun, though he had waited these months for a rifle his own. He might shoot Connolly himself.
The boots said, “The Citizen Army are the boys. They’re the ones put manners on the polis.”
They had come to the Green. Beyond was the Russell Hotel. Doyler said, “Listen, if you’re that fond of them, wouldn’t you think to join?”
The boots sniffed. “He won’t let me.”
“This man that got you the employment, do you mean?”
“That’s right. He’s the manager inside.”
At a lane by the Surgeons Doyler stopped and pulled him aside. “What does he make you do?” he asked. The boy looked dismayed by the question. His head leant down into his chest. “He take you into his bed, does he?”
“No. Not that.”
“What does he do then?”
“There’s a cupboard,” said the boy.
He wouldn’t look at Doyler now. For a moment Doyler had a thought of putting his arm round his shoulder, try to cheer the chappie up. But he shook that nonsense out of his head. “Don’t come looking for me no more,” he told him. “If you’ve time to go walking, you’ve time to go looking for a decent employment.” He turned on his heels.
He was hawking the paper outside the GPO one day, and who came by only Mr. Mack, mooching along in a daze and staring up at the tops of the buildings. “Mr. Mack,” he said.
“My my, it’s Doyler Doyle. Well, I wouldn’t have known you. How’s this you’re keeping?”
“Grand, Mr. Mack, and how’s yourself?”
“Bobbing along, sure, bobbing along. We don’t see you out our way at all this weather. Sure I know what it is, the big smoke here. Poor old Glasthule is in the ha’penny place altogether.”
“Something like it, Mr. Mack.”
He wanted to know what was this Doyler was selling, and Doyler showed him the Workers’ Republic. Paper of Liberty Hall, he told him. But Mr. Mack could give him the story on that, and he was off telling about some poor young fellow was nabbed in Kingstown for peddling the self-same sheet. Mr. Mack didn’t know but he had to eat his Christmas dinner off His Majesty’s plate. He swung back on his heels. “You want to be careful with that rag, Doyler. I don’t know how much is this they pay you, I won’t ask neither, but keep an eye out for them constables on the beat. You’d be wiser selling the Evening Mail. The Herald even.”
Doyler was grinning away. He was very pleased to meet Mr. Mack. It was something from a long-lost past, something from his childhood even. “You’re a long way from home,” he said.
“I’m here on—well, I’m not here on business at all. Well, it is business actually, important business. What it is, I’m on my way to the Castle.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Oh yes, my mind is made up.”
“But, Mr. Mack, the Castle is down the opposite way.”
“Dublin Castle?”
“Back over the bridge and up Dame Street.”
He gave a look north and south like he thought they might have moved. “I knew that,” he said, “I knew that. Only I thought to take a stroll past the bank here.” He was indicating the post office. “Fine building, with the columns and things. I was just thinking how Dublin has a wealth of fine buildings to boast of.”
“What would have you calling on the Castle though?”
“What it is, I’m to sign up for the Georgius Rex.”
“Them old crocks?”
“Now now, fair’s fair. They may be old but the heart’s in the right place. I was thinking if it wasn’t time we put some beef into the home defenses. Enter stage right, an old sweat of the Old Toughs.” He laughed at his humor and Doyler nodded his head. “Hasn’t the Castle called me in special to discuss the matter. Down this way you say?”
“Over the river and right by the bank.” A group of cavalry officers was strolling up with their judies on their arms. It wasn’t only peelers Doyler had to look out for. He’d often be dodging the canes of the military.
“Jim will be delighted now that I met you. Have you any message at all?”
The officers passed under the portico. Doyler held up his paper for them to read. The canes swaggered. One of the ladyfriends looked back amused. “I don’t know now, Mr. Mack.”
“Will I say you’re looking fine and smart, and that’ll do?”
He stared after the officers. “Tell him I’m a Citizen soldier.”
“Citizen soldier,” repeated Mr. Mack. Doyler felt him, in girth and circumstance like a peeler himself, looking gravely down at him. “Is that what this uniform is about?”
“That I’m in the Citizen Army and I’m under orders.”
“I was wondering what was this you was caught up in. Are you sure now you know what you’re about, young man?”
“Mr. Mack, I tell no lie, but I’ve known since before I can remember that this was what I wanted.”
“Well now.” There was a genuine concern in his big round face. He had his hand in his pocket.
“Ah no,” said Doyler, “I couldn’t take that.”
“Take heed of an old soldier now. You won’t never fill a tunic without a good feed first. Get along and get something to eat. Something with peas. You’re not getting your greens at all, by the looks. I know you’re a sound man for a lend.”
“All right, Mr. Mack, I will so, and I’ll have it back—”
“Don’t be in any hurry about that.” Doyler was looking down at the money. He felt Mr. Mack’s hand on his shoulder. “You know now with your folks gone and all, you might kip down the night at home with us. If you wanted to get out of this, a moment even. Jim would go crackers to see you.”
“That’s kind of you, Mr. Mack.”
“Mind now, I mean it.”
“Thanks for that, Mr. Mack.”
“Not a word.”
Doyler wandered back to Liberty Hall. A couple of kidgers, seeing him in uniform, play-marched beside him. He felt lonely in himself, very lonely in the tenement-shadowed streets. The guard at the door told him he was wanted above. It was his captain. “I hear you were trying to get yourself arrested again, Private Doyle.”
“I was trying to sell the paper, sir.” He’d sometimes get this off the officers, a carpeting for selling in the main thoroughfares. But Doyler couldn’t see much use selling to people who wanted to read the paper. It was the people who didn’t, or didn’t know they wanted, you had to catch. Else you was talking to yourself.
“When will you learn, Doyle, that there is such a thing as a revolutionary moment. And that moment will not be decided by a harum-scarum hothead getting himself arrested for selling without a license and answering the police in Irish.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. They tell me you’ve been looking for a gun.”
“I believe I’ve paid up regular as the next man.”
The captain was writing on a slip of paper. “We had a shout from one of our people. Volunteers are shifting pieces down Ferns way. Our
man thinks there might be one goes missing first. You up for that?”
“From under the nose of the Volunteers? Too right I am.”
The paper slid over the table. Doyler picked it up, but before he could read the captain had it plucked away again.
“You’re a puzzle to me, son. I think you’d prefer a rifle off the Volunteers than off the constabulary. Or off of the British Army even.”
“Maybe I would.”
“The Volunteers are our friends now. You want to remember that.”
“Then why am I pinching a gun from them?”
His captain watched him a moment. He gave the paper back. “Could be some of them are more friendly than others. Dismissed.”
MacMurrough rapped on the door of a shed. An inquiry was hailed and he answered his name. Hurried movement inside, nails hammering into wood. Eventually bolts withdrew and the door opened a pinch. It was daylight outside, but whoever it was shone a hard torch in his face.
“All right.”
MacMurrough squeezed in the door. “I understand you have a consignment for Ferns.”
“You’re early.”
“Yes, we are rather. Less difficulty finding the place than anticipated.”
“We?”
“Yes, my aunt. She’s waiting in her motor-car. Eveline MacMurrough.” He still had a hand at his head, shielding his eyes. “Look here, is that light necessary?”
The torch flicked off, and MacMurrough saw it was indeed a gloomy interior. Sort of railway sort of shed. He believed he recognized the man. He had been one of the customers in that peculiar tobacconist’s his aunt had recommended. With sly humor they had watched him, and with that same humor the man watched him now.
“I have the order checked for you,” he said. “Glad to say everything present and accounted for.”
“Well, if you would point me to it, I shall be off.”
The man shone his torch on a bench at the back. There were three wooden boxes, long boxes marked crudely in red, Piping. It was evidently the lid of one of these MacMurrough had heard being hammered. “Are they heavy?”
“I think you’ll manage.”
MacMurrough humped them to the car, one at a time, lifting them over the Stepney wheel, and on to the rear seat.
At Swim, Two Boys Page 43
