by Leon Uris
Sunday's pants were pressed and Sunday's boots were polished. The Orange sash, the medals for service and valor, the bowler hat, the rolled black umbrella, were ceremoniously laid out in fifty thousand row houses and fifty thousand farm cottages.
All movement flowed gently to the call of church bells. On this unusual Saturday, Methodists, Baptists, Presbyterians and Anglicans interchanged preachers, but the message was as old as the imperial experience in Ireland.
If one stood on Cave Hill in the highest place in Belfast and listened closely he could surely hear fifty thousand voices from ten score churches all singing a single hymn.
Oh, God, our help in ages past,
Our hope for years to come,
Our shelter from the stormy blast
And our eternal home.
Under the shadow of Thy throne
Thy saints have dwelt secure.
Sufficient is Thine arm alone
And our defense is sure . . .
This instrument of ultimate defiance was to be a Covenant of Resistance, a blood oath concocted from an old Scottish vow. Ulster's Solemn League and Covenant, an epic document, pointed out the evils of Home Rule, declared it a conspiracy and swore allegiance to God and King. After having stated such allegiance, the Covenant continued to say: "And in the event of such a Parliament [Dublin] being forced upon us we further solemnly and mutually pledge ourselves to refuse to recognize its authority. In sure confidence that God will defend the right, we hereto subscribe our names . . ."
Men, teachers, preachers, children who all had memorized that Kipling poem, repeated it often this morning. At the great Presbyterian Assembly Hall it was read in unison in response from the pastor.
"We know the war prepared
On every peaceful home,
We know the hells declared
For such as serve not Rome —
The terror, threats and dread
In market, hearth, and field —
We know when all is said,
We perish if we yield.
Believe, we dare not boast,
Believe, we do not fear —
We stand to pay the cost
In all that men hold dear.
What answer from the North?
One Law, one Land, one Throne.
If England drives us forth
We shall not fall alone.
With the tone of the day set early, the great white cathedral and those other ships of Belfast's armada of the Reformation emptied their cleansed congregations.
Heartstone was the Belfast City Hall: St. Paul's Cathedral and the Parthenon rolled into one, where an honor guard of two hundred and twenty Orangemen arrayed with white staves and another twenty-five hundred marched solemnly behind the faded silk flag that William of Orange carried at the Battle of the Boyne.
Into all this solemnity rolled the entourage of Sir Edward Carson flanked by the mighty, Captain James Craig and Sir Frederick Weed and a small legion of noblemen, aristocrats, gentry and Orange, Conservative and Unionist leaders. They trod majestically up the steps behind mace bearers into the rotunda where the sacred Covenant lay on a round table, and above it hung the world's largest Union Jack. Behind the table itself was the great wrought-iron screen, depicting Ulster's grandeur, as designed and executed by Conor Larkin.
The Anglo world tensed as the great moment drew close, at hand. Top-hatted leaders tapped nervously with silver-headed canes as clouds of flash powder exploded. At the precise instant, Sir Edward Carson stepped to the desk, unsheathed a square silver pen destined for immortality and affixed his signature to the document. One by one the great ones sanctified the Covenant and marched out
The gates were thrown open to the common man. It was all quite orderly and exquisitely organized. If something was intended to be shown this day it was that Ulster was one, humble and mighty alike. In they poured. The City Hall corridors held a half mite of desks able, to accommodate five hundred persons at a single time and fifteen hundred a minute.
The first of the wrists were cut, and there were, hundreds on that day, and names were written in blood.
Now all of Ulster throbbed alive with the spectacle.
At Hillsborough the Covenant was signed where King Billy had stopped to rest.
At Templepatrick it was signed on the head of a Lambeg drum.
At Derry the Guildhall, scarred with bullets from anti Catholic riots, was under the protection of soldiers at fixed bayonet as the Earl of Foyle and his Countess led the signers.
The sick and aged were carried up to the Covenant on stretchers and rolled up in wheel chairs like a second coming to Lourdes.
At Ulster Hall of Orange Card fame the women signed their separate pledge, no less zealously, no less massively than their menfolk.
At the Shambles in Monaghan the green flag and effigy of Carson were torn down at the pork market by Covenanters.
By noon in Belfast the early hours of discipline faded as thousands flooded Royal Avenue, waiting to get to the City Hall.
From Conor Larkin's vista at the B.R.I. office he could watch the frantic chanting for Edward Carson to make an appearance from the Reform Club over the way. As Carson and Sir Frederick Weed and Craig strode out to the balcony the day's first frenzy erupted. Now the holy Boyne flag was brought to the balcony and, as it was hung, ten thousand heads bared in reverence and men and women broke into unabashed weeping.
The air was pocked by a thousand motorcar horns pushing toward Royal Avenue down North Street, leading legions of Orangemen, Purple Marksmen, Black Preceptories, Royal Scarlets, Garters, Crimson Arrows, Link and Chains, Red Crosses, Apprentice Boys and the rest all swaggering eight abreast behind thumping Lambegs and war-singing bagpipes.
Another line merged down Howard Street, another over the bridge from the stronghold of East Belfast, another up Dublin Road as all of Belfast seemed to converge, now on the manger, the center of the universe.
On they poured like an enraged waterfall, a thousand signers a minute, and this was repeated in every town and hamlet over the province.
The scene in the streets had turned to pandemonium with ancient tribal signals of bonfires erupting from Cave Hill, then Divis, then Stormont, then in an unbroken necklace around the lough and over the hills to every town in Ulster. With night, searchlights raided the sky and fireworks illuminated the bay.
The crowd clung to Edward Carson's footsteps as he whisked from place to place. They hung from lampposts and tiptoed to rooftop edges to get a glimpse. They pulled his carriage by hand in boundless admiration for their new King Billy and Orange Christ rolled into one. All binds on emotions blew wild as Carson and his entourage made to the docks massed with bands and booming cannons.
As he boarded the overnight ship to England he attempted to shout over the mob to keep the old flag flying and promised to return in peace or war.
Conor Larkin had watched much of this scene for the entire day, transfixed. When Carson's boat pulled away from the dock, everything burst forth, lighting the sky in a single ultimate violent illumination, and for an instant Conor thought he was either before the gates of hell or had witnessed the hand of the Lord destroying Sodom and Gomorrah.
CHAPTER TEN
"Atty!" Conor cried. Receiving no answer, he made up the stairs two at a time, entering the flat with a strange sensation of panic.
"Atty!"
"I'm here," she called, entering from the kitchen.
Conor allowed himself a heave of relief. She studied him and frowned. He looked clear gaumy, knocked off his rails, a rare state for himself.
"What's this all about?" she asked.
He shook his head, flopped his arms and sank into the big chair. Atty handed him a drink of whiskey. He did it in and held up the glass for another.
"Did you see any of it?" he, asked.
"I tried to get to your office but Royal Avenue was impassable. Will the government do anything about it this time?"
Conor shook his head. "What are they go
ing to do, Atty? Throw a half million Protestants into prison? How many thousands of them who signed that Covenant were in the military, the Constabulary and the government itself? Here, give me another belt of that stuff . . . that's a good girl. The bloody Unionists are shrewd. They've got the English people on their side and the opposition party split in half."
Atty came around behind him. Her fingers went to work to massage the back of his neck and shoulders. Although he wanted to submit, he was a tight wall back there and she was not able to penetrate.
Conor reached back and patted her hand, took up a pace and drank some more. "It was a masterpiece of organization and resolve. What is so terrifying is the way they can wind up a half million people like mechanical dolls and march them in neat little rows on a given signal, then push another button that says, "Break into mass hysteria." Why in the hell don't our people stand up like that? Because we're beaten, that's why. The only time we can attract a crowd is for some pilgrimage up some goddamned holy mountain to chase the snakes and banshees out of the country."
"They came for Daniel O'Connell once," Atty said. "They came by the hundreds of thousands."
"Yes," he retorted, "but that was before the Irish people died."
"What the hell do you want, man?" Atty snapped. "Your daddy, Tomas Larkin, or a potato-faced Orange Grand Master for a father? If we acted like them, we'd become like them. Is that what you want? We're Irish, messed up, superstitious and unorganizable . . . but, by God, you don't see any poets coming out of Ulster."
"I suppose you're right," Conor mumbled, reaching for the bottle again. This time he did so with Atty's disapproving eye. He glanced at her an instant, then uncorked it anyhow.
"Besides," Conor said, "if it were Catholics marching today in Dublin to sign that Covenant, we'd have been shot down in the streets. Sons of bitches!" he yelled suddenly. "Dirty sons of bitches!" Down went the drink and another was poured.
"You're in a fierce mood and you're drinking too much," Atty snapped.
"I don't need your advice on my drinking habits."
"I think you do. You're getting unpleasant."
"And I suppose you're sorry you came up to see me!"
"I didn't say that, Conor."
"You implied it," he said.
"Draw any damned inference you want. God knows how frustrating and terrifying it is to see that pack of animals out in the streets today. Calm yourself, man . . ."
"Aye. . . I'll try."
"Do you suppose you'd like something to eat?"
"Nae. You go on," he answered. "I've no appetite, myself."
"I'll put everything into the icebox. It will keep," she said, retreating to the kitchen. She returned in a few moments and approached him tentatively.
"I hate to bring things up when you're in such a state, but I've brought orders. You're to return to Dunleer right off, tomorrow."
"Who takes care of the guns?"
"O'Leary will take charge."
"He'll muck it up," Conor said.
"He's been right good acting out the role of F. Clarke-MacCoy up to now . . ."
"He'll muck it up," Conor repeated. "I have to reinstruct him line by line every time, he goes down to customs."
"That's the orders, Conor. Dan wants you out of Belfast. You've been here too long. We know you almost got picked up twice in the past months."
"Seamus O'Neill blabbers too much."
"Are you going to give me trouble about this, too?"
"Nae, what the hell's the use? All I'm doing here is getting the scrapings of the pot, anyhow. For every gun we manage, the Prods are running in a hundred . . . what the hell's the use?"
"Shut up for a minute about your own sorrows!" she yelled.
"Get the guns, don't get the guns, I wish to hell Dan would make up his mind."
"If you helped Dan a little more with the Council maybe he could make his mind up better."
"Dan, Dan, Dan, Dan," Conor snapped. "I think sometimes it would have been better to stick with Jesus and Mary. Some bloody god I picked for myself."
"Your god has cancer," Atty said.
Conor glared at her stunned.
"You heard me right," she repeated.
He put his face in his hands, closed his eyes and rocked slowly. "How long?" Conor croaked.
"Who knows?"
"When did you learn?"
"I found out quite by accident. At any rate he admitted it to me. No one else knows on the Council."
Conor spun out of the chair, all but enfolded himself in the drapes by the window as he stared out unspeaking. At last Atty came behind him, tapped his shoulder and took the glass out of his hand, standing in such a way as to invite his arms. "I'm looking forward to having you back in Dunleer," she said softly. "We used to get awful wild in that little cottage."
Conor turned from her abruptly. "The earth is caving in and all you want to think of is making love!"
Atty straightened up, hurt "I'm going out for a breath of air," she said.
Conor heard the door slam and fell back into the chair and remained motionless for ever so long, then lifted his head as though he were in a daze, retrieved his drink and the rest of the bottle.
He awoke stink-mouthed and head busting, groaning himself upright. Somehow, Atty had gotten him undressed and into bed. He fished around in the darkness. Her back was to him and she was bundled close to her edge of the bed, awake, stiffly awake, but unyielding in a pretense of being asleep.
Conor wobbled into the loo, dunked his head, brushed his teeth, then subjected himself to a long look in the mirror. He did not like what he saw. He glanced to the bedroom, grunted in shame, tiptoed in sheepishly, slipped between the sheets and wiggled up close against her back.
Atty neither budged nor acknowledged his presence. He played his fingertips down her back and over the curve of her hip. No response. He rolled away, over onto his back. He knew she was awake, stuffing it in, would never show a tear.
"You're mad at me and you've every right to be," he said.
For a time she continued to lie immobile. As he moved away in defeat, her hand reached out to touch him ever so slightly. He rolled back up against her, relieved.
"Are you furious?" he asked.
"A little, not too much," she answered.
"I don't know what the hell's the matter with me," he said. "For three weeks I've been looking forward day and night to seeing you and the last time and the time before that. Then I always manage to go and make a balls out of it."
"It's natural enough," Atty said. "You're all pent up with no one to let it out on. You've got to cut it loose on me, I suppose. I understand."
He found the bed lamp, scratched a match and lit it and then opened his arms. She came to him freely.
"I don't know how much of this guff you have to take," he said.
"Just because you get drunk once in a while, I'm not letting you go man. Besides, I've poor little pride where you're concerned."
"I need a smoke," he said.
"Me too."
She knotted her dressing gown loosely with much of her luscious woman showing as she lit up. He tied on his disheveled bathrobe and trailed after her into the parlor. They drew hard on their smokes, going their own ways for a moment, then she snubbed hers out.
"When we first made love," she said, "I have to admit some mean thoughts crossed my mind. The bastard has kept me waiting for two years and I had to all but go to him on my hands and knees, even then. And, I thought, now that he wants me as a woman I'm going to give him some of his own medicine. Just plain old-fashioned pride filled with revenge in the battle between boys and girls . . . a battle I had never lost till then. But don't you know, Conor Larkin, I've not the will to fight you. The minute you put your hands on me, it's all over. No man's ever come within light-years of doing what you do with me . . . not Desmond Fitzpatrick, not any of them. You see, lad, I was never really woman until you cried in my arms. Love I didn't know I possessed poured out of me. I was determined to
wait until the sickness of Shelley had been closed inside you."
She was close on him now, filling his face, with touches. "I was going to wait . . . half of forever, if necessary. But once I realized I was able to open up and then you wouldn't let me . . . it was enough to kill me at first. Sometimes you may get the notion you're only half a man and riddled with weaknesses but you're twice the man in my eyes since the first day you let me hold you and you wept Anyhow . . . you're all I want and I can't fight you when you touch me."
"That's bad luck for you, Atty. You deserve better."
"Conor, we're not breaking up, are we?" she said with a touch of desperation.
"Not as long as you can stand me."
"Oh, that will be a long time then," she sighed. "Can I fix you something to eat?"
"Nae. . ."
"The doings today got to you very deeply."
"Aye," he said, "they did. Anyhow, it will be good to leave Belfast. Once you're out of this place you can play little games with yourself that it doesn't even exist or that somehow it's all changeable. But on days like today you have to know what the reality of Ulster is."
They sat across from one another and Atty waited until he opened his own door and let it all pour out.
"If there's a God," he whispered at last, "and I surely think there is, He will have looked down on the Catholics and Protestants of this province and shaking his head sadly in realization it is the one place the Devil has beaten Him thoroughly."
She nodded.
"I've always believed," he continued, "there was no such thing as total good or total evil and that good and evil must live side by side, even within a single human cell, but today I think I truly saw the Ulstermen for the first time. God knows that the Catholic Church has done all the wrong things to fuel their fears of Rome but the British aristocracy has done the real job. They've created a mongoloid race. They'll never rise here above the level of self-imposed ignorance. Their minds have become vacuums that shut out light and air and ideas and beauty. They are robots who will never be able to see themselves as pitifully enslaved . . . oh, Lord, I'm rambling."
