by Leon Uris
"There is still one single question," Tomas said, "that has been hanging fire since the beginning. It is a question I cannot answer when it is asked of me and a question that brings despair. Even if we get a Home Rule Bill for Ireland, what in the name of God is going to prevent the House of Lords from vetoing it?"
"I'll answer that!" someone called from the rear.
Necks craned. There was another dandy back there. Michael Roche leaped up on a chair and shouted for attention. "Gentlemen! Your attention! This morning I received a message by telegraph at my hotel from Parnell, who expressed his dire concern over the riots here. He said in his message that he would get up to Derry today if it were humanly possible. Gentlemen! It is my extreme pleasure and honor to introduce my close friend, the man whom Ireland has summoned and who has answered that summons. I give you our leader . . . CHARLES … STEWART … PARNELL!”
Oh, holy Mother, I never thought I'd live to see himself! There he came, walking calm as you please down the middle of the hall like Jesus on the waters. Erect! Tall! Aloof! Beautiful! Holy Mother, he was beautiful, like Jesus himself! Everyone was standing on chairs and screaming at the top of their lungs and men started crying and jumping up and down and him as calm as on a Sunday stroll shaking hands all outstretched to him, and nodding like a king, the greatest of our chieftains exalted by his warriors and himself showing such emotionless dignity.
By the time he was halfway down the hall with stewards trying to clear the way, the yelling took shape. “Parnell! Parnell! Parnell!"
“Parnell! Parnell! Parnell!" It swelled like a mighty choir, reaching up and shaking the timbers, and straight on out to heaven. The crescendo was maddening as he was helped up to the platform and waved as his homage continued wildly.
"Parnell! Parnell! Parnell!"
He raised his hands for silence and in a moment you could hear a fairy whisper.
"Who addressed the question?" he asked, speaking very British.
"Tomas Larkin of Ballyutogue."
"The son of Kilty?"
"Aye."
"I am indeed honored," Parnell said. Can you ever believe that! Charles Stewart Parnell standing so close I could reach out and touch him and him saying that he was honored to meet Tomas!
"It's like this, Tomas, and all the rest of you who have pondered the same question. It's not a one-day battle. No one single bill of legislation will end the struggle. It is war, a war that will only cease when Ireland has achieved total independence. There were battles yesterday fought by Wolfe Tone and O'Connell, battles for land and religious freedom. Home Rule is today's battle, today's strategy in that war. What we will achieve by this election is to make Ireland and the Irish question the most important single issue in British politics. We shall use every parliamentary tactic at our disposal and take full advantage of the present air of liberalism. One veto, or two or three, by Lords will merely delay but certainly will not derail the drive for Home Rule."
Sure that was clear enough, even for me to understand. Parnell spoke softly and to the point about every kind of problem that was asked of him. His logical and quiet determination was inspirationally contagious. Conor had been gaping openmouthed like a hungry eaglet. When the meeting adjourned, he was the first to reach Parnell, and although there was a great deal of commotion around him, a magic thing happened before my eyes. Conor Larkin and Charles Stewart Parnell seemed to be all alone in the hall and speaking to each other without words, each seeming to have reached something very deep inside the other. He reached out and took Conor's hand and Conor grimaced from the pain and I guess it was then Parnell saw the rest of the cuts and bruises. He knew at once.
"Are you the son of Tomas Larkin?"
"Aye, my name's Conor."
"I'm staying at the Donegal House. Why don't you drop by, say in an hour, and we can have a chat."
"Oh, I couldn't do that, sir, not without my friend Seamus."
"Of course I meant the both of you."
I was so excited I nearly threw up as we approached the Donegal House. The lobby was filled with political persons and petitioners and callers but don't you know, Michael Roche himself was on the lookout for us and whisked us right past everyone and into Charles Stewart Parnell's parlor.
And there we were standing alone before him. I had an urge to drop to my knees and pray but I edged up close to Conor and tried to answer his questions sensibly. He and Conor talked, it seemed endless, almost ten full minutes when Parnell took something from the desk.
"I'd like you to have this book, Conor, and of course share it with Seamus."
Conor licked his lips and strained to read the cover. He shook his head and handed it back. "It would be a waste to give this to me," he said.
"Well, you do plan to read well enough someday, don't you?"
"Aye, I do, Mr. Parnell."
"Keep it for that time. It's called The Rights of Man by an American named Thomas Paine. It has some very important ideas you ought to know about."
He shoved the book back into Conor's hands and Conor lowered his eyes near to tears. "Mr. Parnell," he whispered, "whatever are you taking up your time for on a nobody like me?"
And Charles Stewart Parnell reached out and touched Conor with his left hand and me with his right. "That's one of our greatest problems here in Ireland. We've felt like nobodies for too long. You're very much somebody, Conor Larkin . . . Do you understand me, lad?"
"Aye, I do," he said.
As Conor backed out of the room I could not resist the urge that swept me to Parnell. I threw my arms about him and said, "God bless you, Mr. Parnell."
We lay in the hay all night hanging onto that moment, never wanting to let it go. Conor thumbed through the book, picking out words he knew. Very late Tomas came to check our wounds and tuck us in. There was a sadness in the man. He had brought Conor to Derry to disenchant him, to show him ugly realities. But the fires were lit in Conor and they would never be dimmed for all his life, and his daddy was sorely distressed.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Sir Frederick rapped briskly on the door with the head of his cane. Caroline opened it widely in anticipation. The warmth of her bear hug revealed that she was relieved over his arrival. Times have changed, he thought. In the old days he would have had to dredge through the Left Bank, usually turning her up in some God-awful four-story walkup. Although her apartment at the Ritz was more in keeping with her status, it was hardly in keeping with her old bohemian spirit. She wore unusual pallidness and seemed on nerve's edge.
Caroline had not written for her father to come to Paris, nor had she written for him not to come. The undertones and between-the-lines had disturbed him sufficiently to bring him over. After establishing himself in a suite down the hall and devouring the always craved-for French cuisine, he wove slowly toward the heart of her discontent
"Found any good works?"
"They're getting scarce," Caroline answered. "The entire Impressionist school is becoming a victim of its own success. Too many bad imitators about now. The prices on Corot and Ingres are simply scandalous."
"Hummmm." He probed on with circumventing nonsense. Caroline grew irritable.
How’ve you been amusing yourself?"
"I damned well haven't and you know it," she snapped.
"What's up, Caroline?"
She strode to the French doors, unlocked them and stepped out on the balcony. He trailed after her. The splendor of Place Vendome and its bustling colonnade over the way came into full and glorious view.
"I can't believe that all the artists have suddenly abandoned Paris," he said.
"It seems they've all grown older," she said, "and so have I." She fidgeted with the boxed hedge plant. "I guess I'm getting along. I find young men extremely boring, pushy, bragging about a manhood they haven't achieved and most likely never will, and they're awful lovers. Their head-on cavalry charges will never be replaced by finesse. Even faithful old Claude Moreau spends his days in dreary cafes that I once found glowing and h
e prattles on endlessly about things I once found either earth-shaking or amusing. The climb up his stairs is too long, the bed too hard and the water too cold. In fact, Claude's foot is perpetually propped up on a chair and pillow from the gout, which he incessantly irritates by voluminous consumption of cheap red wine. He's a bloody alcoholic. Oh, Freddie, I've been miserable."
They joined forces in the heaving of a sigh.
"What do you suppose we ought to do?" he said
"Quit running, I guess."
A chill sent them back into the parlor. Her first words of capitulation should have brought him some sort of vicarious pleasure but he had known all along that one of the most potent aspects of their love was his respect and admiration of her independence. He deplored seeing her defeated.
"I suppose my entire life game has been predicated on running away from you," she said. "So long as I was able to justify it, no matter how ridiculously, I found it all very funny. Funny, so long as self-indulgence in the fleshpots and self-centered brattishness could be rationalized. What has happened is a sudden loss of content in life. I'm no longer overjoyed and giddy riding the merry-go-round and I no longer take delight out of earning your ire. It seems that the time has arrived for me to earn my passage and everything indicates that Roger Hubble is my passage."
Weed loosened his vest, cravat and collar uncomfortably. "I said once that I'd let you go into a poor bargain but I'm not going to see you get into anything that's going to make you unhappy."
"It's not Roger Hubble making me unhappy, only what he symbolizes, the end of folly, the crossing over and coming of age of Caroline Weed."
"Do you think you can have a good go with him?"
"If I take it on, Freddie, I'm going to make it work."
"I guess it's the end of a game I've rather enjoyed myself," Weed said. "Hate to admit it but it's been good fun. I wish I could say I feel exalted about your decision."
"Freddie, I do want to earn my passage. It's just the realization of it that's come as a shock."
He nodded. "Once this all settles in, I think you'll know you've come to a sound decision. He is quite an unusual man."
"Can I tell you something? He scares me just a little. All the while he's acting out trivia, he's really seeing right through me and letting me play my ridiculous little games."
"I know what you mean," her father said. "The Brigadier saw it in him first. He's always further down the road waiting for you to catch up. In the long haul I think we're both going to need Roger. He has subtle touches of restraint, delicacy in his negotiations, a hand on the pulse of the times and an eagle eye on the future. He's thinking; his bloody mind is a trap. You'll never find him charging around like the Weed bulls. Watch him, the man is going to be one of the key persons in calling the plays for Ulster."
They allowed the reality of it to sink in over tea.
"Now that the Rubicon is about to be crossed," she said, "I might even allow myself to get excited over the prospect."
"Good!" Sir Frederick said. "That's the way it ought to be. Well then, let's give it a go, shall we?"
*
The journey to Hubble Manor was ostensibly arranged to conclude a formal closing of negotiations which had been carried on between Lord Roger and Brigadier Maxwell Swan. The Caw & Train Graving Dock, Foundry & Machine Works was a modest affair geared to the refitting and repair of ships servicing Londonderry and northwest Ireland with occasional callers from storm damage. The factory part of the yard monopolized ironwork for three counties. Sir Frederick made a generous offer to buy out everyone's interest except Lord Roger's, thus making them equal partners. Part of the transaction called for Weed to modernize Caw & Train, for, like most of Londonderry's industry, it verged on antiquity.
His purchase of half a graving dock was more allegorical practical. The gesture gave off an unmistakable "reading that Sir Frederick and the other Belfast industrialists recognized Londonderry's right to its own markets. It further made an unwritten statement that the west was now locked into Belfast in any Ulster political scheme. This spelled a smashing victory for Roger Hubble and set up an atmosphere to allow future partnerships between the two ends of the province.
No sooner was the signing final than the two began to sniff about the possibility of establishing a modern roundhouse and engine repair facility in Londonderry. That hinted of a possible future merger of railroads into a trans-Ulster line.
Although everything was handled in subtle terms, there could be no mistaking hidden meanings accentuated by the presence of Caroline Weed. Roger took it in stride. All that was rumbling under the surface was treated with understatement. It marked the first time that father and daughter Weed had ever been so maneuvered. Roger neither gloried nor bullied at gaining the upper hand.
Hubble Manor and Londonderry showed Caroline little more than borderline palatability. The castle contained the same dank collection of relics she remembered from years before. Pocketbooks would be severely stretched and years would be required to make it habitable in her eyes. Moreover, nothing on earth could ever take Londonderry out of the provinces. If Ulster was a cultural desert, Londonderry was the furnace on the desert floor. It did offer some semblance of challenge. Redoing Hubble Manor could be made pleasurable and the idea of trying to civilize Londonderry had its interesting aspects. Caroline slowly accepted the situation with no intention of turning tail. What proved to be the stupefying stumbling block was a total lack of response on the part of Roger. He continued to be a charming host as well as an unrevealing one. It became clear to Caroline she would have to be the aggressor.
Late one afternoon she wandered into the Long Hall, a part of the original castle which had survived fairly well intact through fires and sackings. The Long Hall was a gargantuan open-beamed cavern of quasi-Gothic bravissimo, its history hung in oversized oil paintings depicting the entire line of the earldom.
"There you are," Roger called from the far end. "How on earth did you find your way in?"
"Back door was open, it was raining outside, and Freddie taught me as a little girl to always come in out of the rain."
Roger sniffed at the dankness and gloom. "Afraid the place needs a bit of cheering up. I don't think it's been used since my father abandoned the old homestead."
"Intimidating bunch," Caroline said, nodding down the line of paintings that ran the hundred-and-fifty-foot length that had earned the hall its name.
"Rogues' gallery," Roger said, "scoundrels."
He strolled a few paces and stopped before Calvert Hubble the First Earl of Foyle, patriarch of the dynasty. They looked up to a classical depiction of a hard-riding warrior at the head of the charge. "Nothing small about Lord Calvert," Roger said. "When the main Elizabethan fleet landed at Kinsale to finalize conquest of the wearisome Celts and turncoat Normans, Calvert slipped away, doing a long dash up the coast and into Lough Foyle, claiming every inch of land he overran."
Roger popped off his toes, filling the air with gestures that Caroline had rather come to enjoy.
"Calvert was given a barony for his services, hardly enough to whet his appetite. His fertile mind helped convince the King that Ulster should be planted. Purchasing land at a penny an acre, he established an earldom, then sold boroughs complete with towns for five hundred quid each. A thousand pounds got an entire barony. A good farm of O'Neill land carried the price tag of a river. One could hardly turn it down, and in poured thousands of loyal Scots.
"This greedy chap soon owned land patents on both sides of the Foyle, controlled the Lough's fishing rights and was exacting a toll on every ship in and out of Londonderry. Moving ever eastward, Calvert created the title of Viscount Coleraine which I wear with some apprehension. Viscount Coleraine was planted for future male heirs to claim the settlements around Coleraine and the mouth of the River Bann as part of the earldom. Alas, it was in the stars that he ran bang into the Chichesters, who were gobbling up land patents east to west as he was doing west to east. They say Lord Calvert fo
amed at the mouth like a werewolf the day Chichester was awarded the fishing rights on the Bann and Lough Neagh."
Caroline laughed so heartily she sounded for an instant like her father.
"Undaunted by the setback," Roger continued, "Calvert pressed on. To secure the defense of the earldom he conjured up another ingenious scheme: convincing the King to lease the entire city of Derry to the London guilds. The Honorable Irish Society was created to run the program and the city was renamed, Londonderry, a name still not recognized by the natives. As overseer of England's first colony, Lord Calvert controlled or manipulated every commercial, agricultural, military, political and financial dealing until his untimely death from drink and debauchery at the age of forty-four."
"I have the feeling," Caroline said, "you would like to shock me if you could."
"Shock you, good Lord, no," Roger said, walking away quickly. "Fact is, I've been generous to Calvert. Come this way," he said, trying to avoid the sensations of her closeness. "Here is my personal candidate for Hubble of Hubbles, Sidney, number three. To look at that brisk, noble bearing, you'd never believe him an asthmatic wart, nonetheless a stunning general. He was Cromwell's man for western Ulster, in which capacity he conducted three of the most notable massacres in Irish history. Having no money in the British Exchequer to pay for the Cromwellian follies, the Catholics were deported west of the River Shannon, as you know, and three million acres of their land was lifted, of which Lord Sidney grabbed a hundred thousand for himself. He wisely doled out large parts of it as back pay to Cromwell's soldiers and thereby established a private army within his earldom. The yeomanry that emanated from these stout lads has gained a frightening reputation . . . not without reason."
The rest of the line were lesser men in varying degrees. They came toward the front entry of the Long Hall, which had been locked for years. "My grandfather, Lord Morris, the famine Earl," Roger said, "and my father, Lord Arthur, the only Hubble in a sailor suit." Suddenly Roger had run out of nervous outpour and stood awkwardly.
