Trinity

by Leon Uris

  Any notions of harassment or stampede dispelled to rapt attention as O'Garvey issued a challenge to Hamilton Walby to come up to the stand and explain the matter of providing money for the gombeen men to loan to farmers at abnormal interest rates. After throwing a hundred Presbyterian farms into debt because of flax prices, Walby's agents had made them loans and when these were defaulted he had annexed hundreds and hundreds of their acres, Presbyterian acres, to his personal squiredom.

  When the message of O'Garvey's speech got back to the squire, his loyal legions were further shattered to see the Major and his entourage gallop away from the fair without finishing his judging chores.

  The charges had gone unanswered and the loyalists were in a quandary.

  *

  Luke Hanna, a craggy old sort of about the Major's age, had managed Lord Hubble's flax mill for two decades. A. J. Pitkin led Luke through the scented splendor of the squire's rose garden but was suddenly held at bay by a pair of nasty characters, Walby's pit bull terriers. The Major looked up from his digging, pacified his pets, set his tools aside and tugged off his gloves.

  "Good of you to come, Hanna."

  The three made to the gazebo. Walby knew that Luke practiced temperance only part of the time and ordered refreshments of a substantial nature. One of the dogs staked claim to the Major's lap, fixed on Luke and growled low at his every move.

  "Bang on, Hanna," Walby said. "I asked you here because I want to use you as a sounding board. As you know, the next election will have some novel aspects to it."

  Luke held his hands up in a begging-off gesture. "I'm no politician."

  "Ah, but you are a deacon in your church and the Grand Master of your Orange Lodge. You know what the chaps are saying and thinking."

  "Just what are you after finding out, Squire?"

  "Hummm, any whispers of discontent, that sort of thing."

  "Shall I be blunt?"

  "Candor, I believe, is the order of the day here, what, Pitkin?"

  "Candor, indeed," Pitkin concurred.

  The squire's eyebrow arched as Luke pondered his words and the dog was petted until he stopped his rumbling.

  "The lads are thinking it's high time you gave us the time of day," Luke said.

  "I think that calls for an explanation," Pitkin said.

  "Well now, take this incident at the Buncrana Fair. There were some pretty harsh charges, Squire. Maybe they should have been answered."

  "Rubbish," Walby snapped. "You certainly don't expect me to engage in a name-calling contest with a gang of rowdies. Well, do you?"

  Luke shrugged and fortified himself.

  "See here, Hanna," Pitkin said indignantly, "certainly no one believes that pack of Fenian lies."

  "It's like this, gentlemen. Makes no difference to our lads. Nothing Kevin O'Garvey tells them is going change a single vote. Our lads are loyal to the end. However, they're after thinking some of that loyalty should be returned by yourself."

  Walby and his dog growled together in practiced rhythm. Pitkin and he had discussed the possibility of recruiting Orangemen to harass O'Garvey's meetings. It seemed a bit dicy in that they had to steer clear of anything that might cause outside observation. A riot would bring in journalists could well drag up the business of the voting boundary changes.

  "You are certainly not suggesting that the squire hasn't represented loyal interests in Parliament?" Pitkin snipped.

  "Well, let me see if I can tell you what I'm telling you," Luke retorted. "We've gone along with the Major unflinching and unfailing. Times have taken a turn, like maybe the Major needs us just as much as we need him. So what I'm telling you is this. You've not gone out of your way to give us a little praise in the past. I think you'd better consider your partnership with us in the future. Just because we're not Anglicans doesn't mean we're not good, loyal Protestants."

  "I see," Walby said.

  Luke managed to suppress his delight. This was apt to be a painful comeuppance for the squire, who was going to be forced to come out of his enchanted little borough and solicit the same men he'd spent a lifetime ignoring. Sure they were loyal and sure they were Protestants but Luke knew how the squire considered them, that's what. Any non-Anglican was a dissenter, an inferior.

  "You'll find the strongest way to influence our lads through our preachers, who never let our people forget their duty to the Crown, both in the Church and in the Orange Order. In my opinion, you ought to consider taking part in the Twelfth of July and Apprentice Boys celebrations this summer. Let yourself be seen around, if you know what I mean."

  When it suited his purpose Hamilton Walby could turn livid. Otherwise, he owned an extremely shrewd mind capable of evaluations in a clear and quick manner. He remained placid, for what Luke told him was entirely clear.

  “Don't you feel that because of the lack of personal contact in the past your chaps are apt to think my sudden of appearances might be somewhat . . . er … transparent?"

  "They will consider it to mean you finally recognize importance," Luke answered directly. "The new political order of things, one might call it."

  Sensing his master's discontent, the dog growled and was booted from his lap for his trouble. Walby didn't like the bloody alliance, not a bit. And what if he refused to make an ass of himself and parade about in their idiotic costumes? Indeed, what of it? Who would they vote for? The Fenian?

  As though Luke were reading his mind, he smiled and delivered the coup. "If you don't get out and march with the lads, they might put up their own candidate."

  With that question answered, the Major turned to Pitkin and in true commanding-officer style ordered him to get cracking on a program of appearances.

  "Like I said when I came," Luke said, "I'm no politician but you'd also better consider the fact that your constituency has expanded." Luke jerked his thumb in the direction of the hills.

  "Are you suggesting, Hanna, that the squire go up there and mingle with the Catholics?"

  "Isn't that carrying this democratic business a bit far?" Walby said.

  "Right or wrong, they've got the vote," Hanna answered. "I think it would show a great deal of character on your part to face them man to man and let them know you're a man of your own convictions."

  "But they haven't the vaguest idea of fair play," Pitkin mid, "they'll make a shambles."

  "I've got to disagree," Hanna said. "I've been dealing with them all my life without trouble."

  "Never, sir, never!" Hamilton Walby cracked.

  "Hear, hear," Pitkin echoed.

  *

  "Never" turned out to be three days of agonizing.

  The new demands to practice egalitarianism for the first time in one's life was confusing.

  The Presbyterians had been trying to gain an equal status with Anglicans for generations. History on the matter was quite clear that in the beginning of the petition of Ulster the Presbyterians were in league with Catholics. They turned to the Crown when it suited own purposes and ever since had tried to force an alliance down the Anglicans' throats.

  Walby detested the Zealous evangelical nature of the Presbyterian Church as crude, pompous, downgrading and highly imaginative. The squire had studiously arranged to be in England during their summer marching and avoid all that Orange rowdyism.

  Despite their shortcomings, Walby could rationalize that they were palatable. They were now completely loyal They were British, in a manner of speaking. They were Protestants. A low order, mind you, but Protestant nonetheless An accommodation with them was required to keep the Irish properties safe for the Crown. East Donegal was his personal segment of that duty and responsibility.

  While one might live with the Presbyterian thing, the Catholic thing was incomprehensible. Hitherto, a visit to their Bishop had sufficed. Those church people knew how to play the game. But now he was faced with the repugnant prospect of actually soliciting Catholic votes to return to a seat in Commons that was his and his alone.

  Few blue thoughts and utteran
ces about Gladstone and the Liberals failed to cross Walby's mind and lips. Those people were conspiring to destroy the Empire, when does a colonizer give the natives the right to vote? It was ridiculous enough to form the Act of Union permitted the Irish Catholics to sit in the British Parliament. Lord, everyone knew Parnell and his wretches were out to destroy the Union and impose Home Rule. What between heaven and earth could be more devastating than a Dublin Parliament peopled by Fenians who had neither the right nor the ability to rule themselves?

  Through all his agonizing, one ideal prevailed. The unthinkable disaster would be to bring eternal shame to the family name by losing the seat. Things were a bit up the air now but a good officer assesses his losses, regroups his forces and attacks.

  And then his agonizing was done.

  *

  Bong! Bong! sounded the angelus, the men through the crossroad fell to their knees as though they had been cut down by the blast of a blunder. "Hail, Mary, blessed art thou . . ."

  Tomas squinted into the muffled light of Dooley McCluskey's public house, the odor of the place pure heaven after a day in the fields. McCluskey slid Tomas' nightly measure over the bar to him.

  "How are you keeping, Dooley?"

  McCluskey grimaced. "Poorly, Tomas. The constipation," he moaned. "I've a monumental case of knots in me puddin'." He nodded to the dark corner where Luke Hanna held forth alone with a bottle.

  "Ho there, Luke. What brings you to these parts this time of day?"

  "I've been waiting for you." He refilled Tomas' glass. “Here, throw that across your chest."

  "Sláinte."

  "Sláinte." the salute was returned.

  Luke shook his head, disbelieving what he was about to say. "The squire wants to hold a political meeting with the lads in your village."

  "Aw, don't glink me, man."

  “I’m not glinking you."

  "Surely?" Tomas said.

  "Aye, it's a fact."

  Dooley, who was generally the soul of discretion, emitted a whistle.

  "Jaysus," Tomas said. "About the only time we ever Hamilton Walby is when he comes galloping through fields after those poor dear little foxes. Does the man really think he's going to win votes in these parts?"

  Luke scratched his jaw. "It's like this, Tomas. You know where I stand and I know where you stand. It might not do any good. On the other hand, what harm is there? So long as the new laws require certain accommodations, they ought to be arranged peacefully."

  "That makes sense," Tomas said. "And I suppose the squire is prepared to give the same courtesy to Kevin O'Garvey."

  "Ah, I knew you was going to bring that up. Tomas, All of this is new and there's only so many shocks the likes of Hamilton Walby can stand at one time. Don't push things too fast, man. Let's have his meeting here and see what happens after." .,

  Tomas shrugged. "Why not? Tell the squire he’ll be most welcome."

  Dooley McCluskey then launched a sincere appeal that the meeting take place at the crossroad under the great old oak known as the "hanging tree." It would be far better than the Norman keep, he reckoned, because with a gathering of that size and nature, thirst would not be far behind.

  Luke and Tomas spat on their hands and shook to consummate the deal, then made outside where the angelus groaned on.

  "How come you let yourself get mixed up with that squire?" Tomas asked.

  Luke hitched his belt and stretched in the cool eve air. "Doesn't matter, does it? I mean, who's sitting Westminster, Walby or O'Garvey? You and me, Tomas, know it's all a game of words. There's nae going to be a Home Rule in our lifetime so long as the House of Lords remains in England and it has the right of veto. I'll still going to the mill six days a week and you'll be the same up in your fields. Nothing is really going change."

  Tomas had told Kevin about the cruel disillusions brave new dawns. He and Luke Hanna knew the ties. "Aye," Tomas said, "that's a fact, Luke, that's a fact."

  CHAPTER TWO

  Sir Frederick Weed pounded out steps with a tenacity attributed to one of his larger marine engines. The entourage strung out behind him broke a half trot to keep up as he reached the midway point of his personal, fortnightly inspection tour. The main graving dock stood in dead center of the sprawling and monolith where he disappeared into the hold of the ship undergoing major repairs.

  The inspection tour had become a classic of sorts with flash consultations and on-the-spot decisions with his engineers and foremen. A flood of orders and memos spewed out to his aide, Kendrick, and a string of male secretaries who perspired to a man despite the chill in the air.

  Out of the hold he plunged into his newly expanded engine plant, a mastodon of five acres under roof. Sir Frederick had wagered heavily on the concept of a triple expansion engine designed to increase boiler pressures which drove his new twin screw ships to mercurial speeds of up to eighteen knots. Unheard of! But this was an age of unheard-ofs and now his architects were planning ships of ten thousand tons!

  Weed knew a large number of the thousands of employees by first name. As he moved along he feigned camaraderie, constantly politicking as he lent a "sincere" ear to this complaint or that suggestion, shoving off again with the backslap, the handshake, the word of mock encouragement. His blocklike build of former athletic days somewhat blubberized but he still cut a figure of respect and his cigar bellowed as though it were smoke from an eternal flame.

  Out of the marine engine building the inspection party paraded to King William Channel, which divided the complex in half. Sir Frederick never failed to stop in middle of the high bridge. From here he could see the graving docks, the dry docks, the great roofed structures housing plating sheds, foundries, sawmills, warehouses, support shops, factories. On the south side of the channel four chimneys of his steel mill fractured the sky in what was Belfast's most familiar landmark, and next to that the new locomotive works. All that went into Weed Ship And Iron Works could be seen as it nestled mightily on Belfast Lough. King William Channel had been constructed as an artery of the River Lagan and Crown Island; dredged and reclaimed, it now spread to its third thousandth acre of factories, parks and playing fields all bearing the name of Weed. It was as mighty, indeed, as Harland & Wolff complex on the Victoria Channel a half mile to the south.

  Sir Frederick devoured the sight from mid-bridge. "Beautiful,” he said, "bloody fucking beautiful."

  On both sides of the channel it looked like Queen Victoria's birthday with the snappy fluttering of thousands of Union Jacks, Red Hands of Ulster, buntings and pennants. In a manner of speaking, the Queen's birthday was celebrated all year round, for just beyond the Weed Works rose that monotony of red brick called East Belfast, the most loyal Protestant bastion in the entire Empire.

  Forty separate Orange Lodges were attributed to the Works. Riveters' Lodges, Boilermakers' Lodges, Warehousemen's Lodges, Joiners' Lodges, Plumbers' Lodges, Teamsters' Lodges, Shipwrights' Lodges, Carpenters’ Lodges. There was even a gentlemen's lodge of executives led by Sir Frederick himself, to guide the policies of: the others. Of the 9,640 jobs, 9,217 belonged to Protestants from East Belfast and the Shankill. Of this number, 8,500 were members of the Loyal Orange Order.

  The steel mill boasted open-hearth Siemens-Martin furnaces with sufficient capacity to produce everything the shipyard and locomotive works required, plus most of Ireland's rails and a hog's share of other steel needs.

  Beyond the rolling mill, Sir Frederick had created a research department, for this was the heyday of ships and railroads. Infinities were being overtaken in rapid order. New designs and breakthroughs in engine, hull and boiler design spiraled world shipping. The zenith was not in sight. Sir Frederick Weed was not apt to be caught short or wanting in the rage of ideas. He was the man most responsible for making Belfast a world-class shipbuilding center and his railroading zeal was not far behind.

  The steam-powered Industrial Revolution found ultimate expression in an outpour of British genius. A great industrial exhibition to sh
owplace Britain's wares to the world was inspired by Prince Albert and held in Hyde Park's Crystal Palace in the year of 1851. "Victorian” as the name to identify the age, was born here and the stage was set for an epoch of unparalleled progress. The Crystal Palace itself was a masterpiece of Victorian technology and spearheaded the first important use of fabrication.

  As steam yielded more and more secrets, a plethora advancements of advancements avalanched from British inventive titans. Steam hammers, steam shovels, steam pile drivers, steam- powered hydraulics and lifting jacks. It put high-speed steam-driven tools into the hands of the world's builders and steam-driven farm machines out on the land. High-speed steam turbines drove mammoth vessels over the seas and other steam turbines created power in land stations. New methods of purifying iron opened the way for fabrication and tubing of steel and this went into girders for buildings and bridges of undreamed-of magnitudes. Architects and engineers added such new wonders to the world as the magnus Thames Embankment and the Liverpool dock complex.

  Steam sired the transportation revolution that burst the British from their island restraint to the class power of the world with ships and rails to match her statesmen and guns. The Rocket, the first practical modern steam engine, led the way on land to match her mastery of the seas.

  A lion's share of the world's shipping tonnage carried the Union Jack and every continent hosted gangs of British navvies, the laborers whose industry awed the world as they set down British rails and canals.

  Flamboyant symbol of the era was Isambard Kingdom Brunel, who built the Great Western Railroad and twenty-five others, engineered the first underwater tunnel, fathered the broad-gauge railroad, launched the first iron-clad ship and the first ocean-crossing steamer, followed by an armada of the largest, fastest boats ever known, began railroad telegraphy, sired jet propulsion and engineered the building of tunnels and aqueducts and piers and dry docks and rail bridges and suspension spans of staggering precipitous audacity. Brunel, the "Little Giant," whose demands inspired dozens of world-shaping inventions.