Trinity

by Leon Uris

  "The men who lead your government this minute are the same men who sat in the back bench of Parliament a few years ago expressing public horror and revulsion over your treatment of the Boers. But now that these fine gentlemen have gained power, their pity and their sense of decency have strangely fled as they always have when it comes to the Irish."

  "Must this continue?" Sir Lucian cried out.

  "Yes!" McAloon snapped. "Yes, yes, yes."

  "I stand here in a world filled with rising and angry voices which will no longer tolerate their lives being manipulated by the perverse whims of greedy men. Before this twentieth century is out it will see you packing your kits and being drummed out of every corner of the world in scorn. You're a bunch of damned hypocrites holding yourselves up to the world as the successors of the ancient democracies while your hands are soaked in blood and your Parliament hosts this mockery. All you're really in it for is the money!"

  "Silence! Silence!" Scowcroft burst from crimson cheeks as his mesmerism vanished.

  Conor threw his head back and laughed as the guards closed in on him. "But, my lord," he roared, "even the lowest Irishman is allowed his speech from the dock."

  "Silence the prisoner!"

  "What are you afraid of? No one will hear me. You've made certain of that."

  As Conor was seized Major Westcott bowed to the judge. "Does his lordship wish the prisoner gagged?"

  "Aye, do that!" Conor shouted. "Let's stop the pretense that I'll get justice from the same lovely people who enacted the penal laws."

  Sir Arnold studied himself back into control and waved Major Westcott away. "This court has been overly generous. No further presentation of the prisoner is required."

  "Court?" Conor mocked. "I see no court. I see a hidden room buried in the Wicklow Mountains. There are no law books no journalists, no probing eyes or impartial minds. Are you inferring, sir, that this is a British courtroom?" The judge was paralyzed with shock.

  "Are you telling me you brought me to this place to dispense justice or are you saying that this is the justice you really have in mind for the Irish?"

  Conor turned around, rattling his chains, and his eyes reached every man in the room and they backed off from his glare. "Court? This is a star chamber, a day out of the dark ages, a diabolical notion of justice, a reversion to the Inquisition. Are you serious about this?" Conor shuffled to the judge's table and leaned over, looking the man in his eyes, and the man blinked.

  "You are a stranger in my land, mister. In the end, your fake legality will be exposed and you'll crawl out of Ireland, reviled."

  Silence followed, long, terrible silence.

  "The prisoner," the judge said shakily, "is remanded to solitary confinement while the court takes the matter under advisement." As Scowcroft bolted from the room his tipstaff snapped up.

  "All rise," he said.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  When it was revealed that Sir Frederick Weed's personal train had been used by the Irish Republican Brotherhood to run guns, he underwent a period of grave personal mortification. Anger grew to rage when he discovered that the Sixmilecross men were to come off with light sentences. Gathering in Lord Roger and the Unionist counsel, he pressed a demand for no nonsense legislation aimed at stopping the Irish Republican Brotherhood.

  The key man was necessarily Alan Birmingham, Whip of the ruling Liberal Party. At the moment Birmingham was content to play the Irish question cozy. The Liberals had won overwhelmingly, did not need the Irish Party in a coalition and had no intention of pressing the Home Rule issue. Birmingham realized that a great number of his people resented their periodic shotgun wedding to the Irish and spiritually sided with the Ulster Unionists.

  What convinced Birmingham that a stiff new law was in order was the wave of anti-Irish sentiment that erupted following the Sixmilecross incident. "Little Ireland" ghettos around the country came under attack and the old hue and cry was up to "deport all the feckless Fenian bastards." The temper of the times plus his confidential knowledge of the details of Conor Larkin's outburst made him amenable to sitting down with the opposition to discuss legislation.

  A conference was arranged to take place at Rathweed Hall. Sir Frederick and Lord Roger were there for the Unionists. Birmingham came over for the Liberals. Sir Philip Huston, Whip of the Conservatives, attended for his party and Sir Lucian Bolt came to observe and advise for the Cabinet.

  It was an all-powerful group of cool calculation meeting cool calculation. Presence of Alan Birmingham showed that he wasn't going to be the one to drag his feet on anti-Irish legislation. He'd seen anti-Irish sentiment cause the fall of a government in the past and the others present knew he would play.

  Sir Frederick pointed his cigar down the polished mahogany table, voice quivering with emotion. "My personal humiliation I can bear. What I will not bear is permitting an army of traitors to be built on this soil with the intention of tearing us away from the home island by force." "Hear, hear," Sir Philip Huston concurred. He was inclined to doze and dodder from time to time but his mind was keen. He had canvassed the Conservatives and almost to a man they were prepared to support severe measures to preserve the Union. "We have our nose count. You know how the Unionists and Conservatives stand. Obviously, it's up to you chaps," he said to Birmingham.

  Alan Birmingham had to measure the long term as well as the short term. The off-again, on-again affair with the Irish Party had been largely a self-serving device. At the moment the coalition wasn't needed and things were rather cooled. Yet Birmingham knew he could not lose Liberal rapport with the Irish, for things could be quite different in the future.

  "I shan't go into, shall we say, corrective legislation as an official Liberal position. However, I am here because the necessity and urgency are quite obvious. What I am prepared to do is take off my hat as Whip of the party and set it aside. I will say to my people, "See here, chaps, this is a matter of personal conscience to me and I am supporting this bill. You do likewise, each one of you according to his own dictates in the matter." Do you see what I mean, gentlemen?"

  They all understood quite well.

  "Tell me, Alan, what do you think we can pick up from your people?" Sir Philip inquired.

  "Oh, I'd say a hundred votes. Combined with your strength, it will give you a comfortable majority."

  Sir Frederick smiled. Birmingham was shrewd enough. He'd support the law with his right hand and keep it out of an interparty fight with the left.

  "Sir Lucian," Weed said, turning to the Crown's special man, "has the Prime Minister re-evaluated his position in regard to continuing this soft approach with the IRB?"

  Lucian Bolt was an Irish baiter of long standing with near psychopathic hatred of them. The cabinet decision to tread lightly ran against his grain. He was practical enough to realize the Irish Republican Brotherhood would recruit the strength it required sooner or later and they'd court the Germans for arms. Why give them the time? It could only delay a showdown that had to come a few years hence. Apply pressure here and now, make them struggle every inch of the way. It was the only solution.

  The only thing that restrained him was the need to protect the Protestant community of Ulster. They had to have guns. The new legislation was conceived to create "selective options." It would be a matter of judgment as to who should be prosecuted and who would not. It would allow the Attorney General to go after the Irish Republican Brotherhood but at the same time allow the Protestants to continue to arm.

  "I am quite prepared to try these Sixmilecross people under the new legislation the minute it is passed and mete them out the kind of punishment they deserve."

  Weed cracked his fist on the table in approval. "Bully!"

  "Isn't there some kind of agreement in effect with Robert Emmet McAloon?” Birmingham probed.

  "Considering Larkin's tirade, I don't see that it's valid any longer," Lucian Bolt answered.

  "Let me get this quite clear," Birmingham pressed. "Wasn't Larkin placed outsid
e of the agreement?"

  "It is my belief," Sir Lucian answered, "that McAloon put Larkin up to it."

  "Do you really think so?" Sir Philip Huston said. "It was my understanding McAloon was quite upset by Larkin's refusal to go along."

  "That's just a bloody act," Sir Lucian answered. "All one has to do is examine the facts. This Larkin is a hill farmer, no education, a merchant seaman who never achieved anything more than being a blacksmith. Obviously he couldn't develop those kinds of theories unless McAloon put him up to. it."

  "I suppose you're right when you come down to it," Sir Philip mumbled. "I say, the transcripts were terribly interesting. All sorts of discussion about it among my people. You were there, Sir Lucian, how did he impress you?"

  "He was amusing, I suppose. You know how those people can be. Just enough lunacy involved to have appeal to the Dublin rabble and that's just what it was intended for. Old Scowcroft did let him ramble on a bit too much." Sir Lucian stood and in best courtroom manner addressed the others while standing to emphasize his reasoning. "Let's get this all clear. We went into an arrangement with McAloon because the thinking of the moment was to avoid a public outcry. Our position is now advanced to a different plateau. We are about to enact legislation and subsequently try these men and give them the punishment they deserve. There will obviously be an outcry from the Irish so the deal we had with them is no longer valid. The purpose has changed from the time we made the accord."

  Both Sir Philip and Alan Birmingham stared questioningly at being witness to an obvious double cross.

  Lucian Bolt cleared his throat emphatically. "Besides, I insist it was McAloon who broke the arrangement by putting Larkin up to it."

  "I'm curious, Freddie," Sir Philip prattled on to everyone's discomfort. "You had dealings with the Larkin chap. What sort is he?"

  "I'll answer that," Roger Hubble interceded. "He's a despicable Irish devil. The sort that represents everything evil in his race. He's a liar, a conniver, a man who would cut the throat of his best friend. He all but hypnotized young Jeremy with his athletic heroics and led the boy into brothels, drunks and a disgusting brawl." Sir Frederick lowered his eyes and wished he could plug his ears. "By total deceit in representing himself as an ironmaster, he wormed his way into my wife's confidence and we all know, of course, how he used the friendship of three members of my family to carry out this scheme with the guns. He's clever, too damned clever." Roger cut himself short, realizing they were all glaring at him and he was rising up to a rage. "He's . . . brought a great deal of suffering to us all . . ."

  "Hell of a rugby player," Sir Philip sputtered absently. "Saw him score two tries within five minutes against Oldham. Damned near broke my heart."

  "I don't have an ounce of vengeance in my makeup," Sir Frederick said, "but I am trusting Sir Lucian to see to it that he's put into dry dock for good."

  "That is my intention."

  "Shall we continue, gentlemen?" Sir Frederick said, rapping the table for Philip Huston's attention. "Well then, we are in accord thus far. I hope we all take Sir Lucian's word that there is no agreement between the Attorney General and the so-called Irish Republican Brotherhood and Sir Lucian is free to prosecute the Sixmilecross matter vigorously under the new legislation."

  Alan Birmingham and Sir Philip nodded a bit reluctantly, but nodded nonetheless.

  "The Unionist Party does not wish to introduce the bill because that could be interpreted as an act of vengeance and God knows it's the farthest thing from my mind," Weed said. "I have prevailed upon Sir Philip to have the Conservatives present the legislation. Finally, we have your tacit support on a non-official basis then, Alan?"

  "That's the bundle," the Liberal Whip said.

  "We in Ulster are obviously most concerned and closest to the situation," Roger Hubble said. "I have prevailed on all parties to let us go forward with the first draft of the act." Copies were passed around by Roger, who remained standing. "For sake of identification I shall refer to it as the Detention and Emergency Powers Act and, if you'll follow along with me, I'll read the preamble."

  There was a mass adjusting of eyeglasses and fingering of the papers. "’Certain crimes,’" Roger read, "'of an extraordinary nature involving sedition have occurred which are not sufficiently covered by existing statutes and ordinary judicial procedures. The Attorney General alone is herein empowered to identify such crimes when they are committed and classify them into a category to be tried under the provisions of the bill." It is the sole responsibility of the Attorney General to choose," Roger said, looking up from the paper. "Selection is his and his alone."

  When the fine points had been ironed out several hours later Sir Frederick was ecstatic during the round of handshakes. "Well," he gloated, "we've made a new set of rules to play by."

  Sir Philip had half dozed, stretched and commented that if one had to put in long hours at a stretch it was pleasurable to work in such surroundings. His hand ran over the polished grains of the table "I'd say it was khaya mahogany, Nigerian, if I didn't know better," he boasted of his years as a colonial officer.

  "You're quite right, Sir Philip," Weed said. "Caroline ran into the stuff years ago. Quintana Roo."

  "Quintana Roo?"

  "Yes, a remote province in Mexico. Most beautiful mahogany in the world, what? I had to send in a personal expedition to get it."

  Four days after the Rathweed Hall conference the Detention and Emergency Powers Act was overwhelmingly passed by the British House of Commons.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Two days after passage of the Detention and Emergency Powers Act, Conor was removed from his cell at the Arbor Hill Barracks in Dublin, locked into familiar shackles, hooded and moved by night to another dungeon like room in the basement of Dublin Castle.

  He was seated, tied to the chair and set before a long table with the hood remaining over his head. Observed from the outside through a peephole, he remained thus for several hours without food, water or use of toilet facilities.

  At an hour unknown to him the hood was removed and four men paraded into the room. Three of them, army officers, arrayed themselves opposite him at the table. The fourth was Sir Lucian Bolt, who sat at a smaller table. The senior officer, Colonel Hibbert, cleared a passage for his words through his large brush mustache.

  "Prisoner Larkin, you are now before a tribunal as provided for by the Detention and Emergency Powers Act. Sir Lucian Bolt is here in the capacity of special prosecutor for the Attorney General's office and will explain to you the rules of the game, so to speak."

  "Why don't we cut out this nonsense?" Conor replied. "Give me my sentence, let me go to the toilet and get some sleep."

  Major Disher on the right and Major Young on the left studied the dangerous Fenian. They'd heard he was rather wild. He was a grungy personage, indeed, and God forbid he should be unchained.

  "This will be done properly," the Colonel said. "I'd advise you to cooperate."

  "Colonel, you look like a fairly decent fellow. How'd they talk you into this silly business? Duty and all that? Hell, at least the last place they called a courtroom had a flag in it."

  "I'm asking you for the last time to cooperate."

  "Well now, I am trembling with joy at the notion that I'm about to receive the King's justice . . ."

  "Guard!"

  The door burst open and a quartet of pistol-drawn soldiers charged in. "Gag the prisoner," the Colonel commanded.

  Conor's mouth was tied to the bleeding point. He rolled the chair and himself over on the floor and struggled so his back would be turned to them. The Colonel ordered it straightened up and for the guard to hold him by the hair so he had to look at the tribunal.

  "You may proceed, Sir Lucian."

  Lucian Bolt adjusted his glasses and rose, holding the 'new law in front of him, and ticked off the main articles.

  The Attorney General alone could determine who could be placed on trial.

  No further legal requirement was necessary.<
br />
  Any person deemed suspect could be arrested and searched without warrant.

  Any person deemed suspect could be held indefinitely without charges or bail.

  Any person deemed suspect was not entitled to legal counsel.

  Any person deemed suspect could be brought before a three-man military tribunal on request of the Attorney General.

  At such tribunal all formal legal procedures and rules of evidence were suspended.

  No legal counsel would be present other than that representing the Attorney General.

  No records were to be kept of the proceedings; only a summary of the tribunal was required.

  No witnesses could be called by the defendant, but only by the tribunal.

  The tribunal was empowered to pass sentence from acquittal to any length of imprisonment or to impose the death sentence.

  No appeal was permitted. Only the death sentence would be reviewed by higher authority.

  Sir Lucian asked the three officers if all of this was clear and told them that such measures, while repugnant to English law, were the only means to combat sedition of this nature. The three officers agreed fully. Sir Lucian went on to read the charges and a summary of the events, then rested the Crown's case.

  "In the interest of fair play," Colonel Hibbert said, "I am going to ask the guard to remove the prisoner's gag and allow him to speak in his own behalf. I warn in advance that no foolishness will be tolerated."

  Conor tried to spit. Neither moist nor large but something managed to reach Colonel Hibbert's face. He wiped it slowly, never taking eye off his victim. The three of them adjourned with Sir Lucian and returned in three minutes.

  "His Britannic Majesty's tribunal as empowered by the provisions of the Detention and Emergency Powers Act finds the afore named Conor Larkin guilty of all charges. He is to be remanded to a penal institution to be named at a future time to serve sentence for a period of fifty years. The tribunal further notes the hostile, provocative and uncooperative attitude displayed by the prisoner and sentences him to receive corrective punishment in the form of twenty lashes. The tribunal is hereby adjourned for a period of one hour at which time it will reconvene to pursue the matter of the other defendants in the so-called Sixmilecross incident. Thank you, gentlemen, for doing your duty, thank you, Sir Lucian. God save the King."