by Leon Uris
"Ramble, Conor," she said.
"Look, you've told me about Dan because he wants me to take command of the Brotherhood. That's right, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"Well, I can't."
"Your fear of not being able to win is not reason enough," she said. "As commander you will be able to arrange the glorious defeats you seek. I think Dan understands that."
"Nae, Atty, nae."
"Why, Conor?"
"Because I keep seeing truths that destroy my illusions."
"What are they?"
"Cover your ears, woman, because I speak blasphemy that runs against the grain and enrages the soul of every republican concept. Even though it is the truth, no one among us dares speak it. The truth is that there is as much chance, of bringing reason, much less love, to that mob out there today as trying to draw blood from the wind. So long as we continue to hang onto an illusion of a single, unpartitioned Ireland, the Ulstermen will drench that illusion in blood. Oh, I've made you turn pale, woman," Conor continued, "but what the hell do we want with a million fanatics? You said yourself they are not us and we are not them. They are the tragic orphans of this Irish trilogy, they are His Britannic Majesty's royal lepers and, by God, woman, we Irish are a civilized people and civilized people do not let a million lepers walk among them and poison their wells. I say, wall them off in their goddamned leper colony and let them sing their bloody hymns and beat their bloody drums and fly their bloody Union Jacks till hell freezes but keep them out of our lives or we'll end up diseased by their hatred. The Ulster man is the one who needs an illusion to survive. If we leave them to themselves how long will they last before their hatred has to seek out something to destroy? Who will they have to hate with us gone? They will turn on one another like a sea filled with bleeding sharks. In the end, they'll turn on the aristocracy who brought them to this and follow maniacs like Oliver Cromwell Maclvor.
"Ah, Atty. Why do we continue to hang onto this false dream? I say give them their filthy province, for if we don't we will have condemned the Irish people to eternal damnation."
It was not until this moment that Atty Fitzpatrick truly knew that Conor Larkin was never going to lead the Brotherhood. Yet who but Conor Larkin would stand up and shout truth into a hurricane of illusions?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I was on a continuous treadmill these days between Dublin, Ulster and London as the year 1912 came to a close, and the government prepared the Home Rule Bill for its second round in Commons.
Rhetoric had grown furious, with both Prime Minister Asquith and chief spokesman Winston Churchill decrying the move to partition Ireland as undemocratic. At the same time we knew that the fury and daring of Carson's tactics had eroded much of their iron. Although Unionist attempts to tack on wrecking amendments had been turned back, the door to compromise had been opened.
The Liberal Party remained in the struggle because, they were hostage to the Irish Party and John Redmond was in a last-ditch fight to save his credibility. Yet bitterness mounted around Ireland. Carson, Hubble, Weed and gang had gotten away with every affront. Redmond himself squashed talk of jailing Carson in secret conferences as he feared a backlash in Ulster that could break his fragile hold on the bill. By now even our reluctant bishops were ready to concede the government facade at evenhandedness was a farce.
We knew the Unionists were going to pull something soon and we didn't have to wait long. I received a call at my Belfast bureau office for a press conference at Rathweed Hall on January 15, 1913.
Nothing was more welcome to the expanded press corps than a summons to Rathweed Hall. It usually denoted a major story and also free booze and a caviar-type spread in Sir Frederick's opulent manner. My colleagues arrived at the Sunhouse an hour early and were well oiled and softened by the time Weed made his appearance.
Sir Frederick was in his seventies but had lost little of his spark or spunk. I had a strange sort of adverse relationship with him. He referred to me as his "favorite Fenian," rarely failing to joke about my one-upsmanship, and at times gave me messages to deliver to the Brotherhood while kidding on the square.
The twinkle in his eye this day told me that the Unionists were going to come up with a corker. He gloried in the paper he held in his hand as he called us to attention before him.
"Gentlemen, your attention, please," he said. "I am going to read you a brief announcement."
He placed his glasses on with all the paused skill of a mighty barrister, cleared his throat, and looked up to the fifty journalists arrayed before him, singled me out and told me to make certain my pencil was sharp.
"The Unionist Executive," he commenced, "as of this date hereby declares the formation of the Ulster Volunteer Force. Our goal is to recruit an army of one hundred thousand men between the ages of seventeen and sixty five under a unified central command for the purpose of defending the liberty of this province."
Weed paused pregnantly to allow that to be digested. The murmurs about the glassed room ranged from disbelief to audible comments of astonishment.
Sir Frederick tapped for attention and continued to feign reading from a paper he had memorized.
"We have canvassed the one hundred and seventy Unionist Clubs in existence and are happy to report that all such clubs are transferring their entire memberships en masse to the Ulster Volunteer Force and will form its nucleus so we will have some seventeen thousand men bang out of the bag. Further recruitment will begin immediately. It is our intention to have a full range of activities and departments, a transportation corps, a medical corps, intelligence, communications, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. Finally, gentlemen, we are in contact with Lord Roberts, who, as you all well know, was a leading general in our Indian Army. Lord Roberts and Colonel H. H. Pain, also of the Indian service, have both indicated their readiness to assume command of the Ulster Volunteers."
Darwin Dwight of the London Times was, as usual, first to his feet. "Am I to understand correctly, Sir Frederick, that this is, in fact, to be a private army sponsored by a political party?"
"In a manner of speaking. However, the Unionists are only acting in accord with the wishes of the overwhelming majority of the population."
"And this Ulster Volunteer Force is to hire the services of former British officers?" Dwight pressed.
"Yes," he was answered bluntly.
"Sir Frederick," Tenley of the Mail picked up, "who holds the allegiance of the Ulster Volunteer Force? The Crown? The Unionist Party? Just who are they committed to sir, and in what priority?"
"They are, pledged to the continued freedom of Ulster as a part of the United Kingdom," Weed answered.
"But I say, Sir Frederick, is it possible that this Ulster Volunteer Force might be used against the British Army?"
"God forbid it comes to that, but we will shoot anyone who denies us our British heritage."
"In other words," I said, coming to my feet, "you will fight the British Army in order to remain British as well as ignoring British law that isn't to your liking?"
"Ah, my favorite little Fenian," he quipped. "Well, as odd as it seems, Seamus, that is the situation we have been forced into and I dare say a majority of the English people will do likewise in our behalf."
"Then why did the English vote a Liberal Party into power pledged to a Home Rule Bill . . . by that I mean, aren't you exaggerating your English support?"
"Come now, Seamus," he countered, oozing with familiarity. "You know where the English people stand on this issue. You also know the only reason this obscene piece of legislation ever saw the light of day is because Redmond and his pack forced it. Any more questions?"
"One more," I said. "Have you discussed the legality of this so-called Ulster Volunteer Force with Sir Edward Carson and your Executive,?"
"We have."
"Well, is it legal or not?"
"As you know, the Unionist Clubs and drilling were considered illegal and arms importation was considered illegal. I suppose that certain qua
rters may also consider the Ulster Volunteer Force as illegal. The government knows it is illegal but I rather suspect they're not going to do a damned thing about it."
"Sir Frederick," a half dozen jumped up shouting simultaneously.
"That is all the questions, gentlemen," he said tersely, coming to his feet. "Good day to you all."
As the journalists broke for the General Post Office, to file their stories, Darwin Dwight pulled me aside..
"I think they've gone and done it this time," he said. "The government has to act"
"Want to bet?" I said.
"You're on for a dinner. If they don't crack down on Carson on this one, Asquith will fall in a fortnight."
*
A series of furious conferences ensued between the Prime Minister's Office, the Cabinet, the War Office and Dublin Castle. At the same, time thousands of those who had marched on Covenant Day kept right on marching into Orange Halls and signed up for the Ulster Volunteer Force.
Both John Redmond and the Liberal press attempted to play it down as Carson's bluff and folly but behind closed doors the concern grew grave. Credence to the charge that the Liberals were incapable of ruling reached an all-time high. Yet a severe crackdown in Ulster ran the risk of creating a wave of sympathy in England and Scotland that could spell the fall of the government.
The Conservatives squeezed and Asquith opened up more avenues of compromise. With screams of sellout by the Irish ringing in his ears and with the Ulster Volunteers growing larger and more brazen by the day, the Prime Minister finally summoned his generals to 10 Downing Street. As the meeting broke, the assistant chief of operations acting as a personal courier departed for Ireland.
He made immediately for Camp Bushy outside of Roscommon on the River Shannon where the King's Midlanders were barracked.
Orders : TO PLACE THE KING'S MIDLANDERS ON TWENTY-FOUR-HOUR ALERT TO MOVE INTO ULSTER WITHIN THE WEEK.
Mission : TO SECURE PORTS, RAILWAY DEPOTS, ARSENALS, BRIDGES; REINFORCE ROYAL IRISH CONSTABULARY STATIONS AND OTHERWISE PROTECT ALL GOVERNMENT PROPERTY LISTED HEREIN.
CHAPTER TWELVE
General Sir Llewelyn Brodhead had paced his office dry. Beyond his window the grounds of the century-old Armand Bushy Barracks lay in pastoral solitude where the River Shannon widened into the bulrushes and willows of Lough Ree. Old Camp Bushy had been one of the most desirable commands in the Empire, what with England so close at hand.
Brodhead had whipped his Midlander Division into wartime sharpness for eventualities on the Continent. If war did come, they would be ready. He was particularly keen that the Coleraine Rifles, a crack Ulster regiment, had been made part of the division. Infusion of the Earl of Foyle's home regiment had perked up the entire command and given a sense of needed competition among the units.
It all crashed down on Sir Llewelyn overnight. The order to move into Ulster had been vague, deliberately vague, Brodhead thought. It was almost like invading one's own country. The way the orders read, his troops might come into conflict with the Ulster Volunteers here, particularly in the Constabulary posts. All up and down the line the silence was ominous and seemed to say that "old Brodhead really got a hasty one hung on him this time."
He called his officers together and relayed the order matter-of-factly but secretly anticipated a number of resignations from the Coleraine Rifles. They did not disappoint him as thirty-four of the regiment's thirty-five officers offered to quit when the division crossed into Ulster.
So be it. He'd do his utmost to keep a non-military posture when they deployed. After all, British troops in the province had always indicated a visit of old friends. The Ulster folk would realize, the Midlanders were only doing their duty. What threw General Brodhead totally off guard was that, in addition to the Coleraine resignations, half the division's other officers resigned as well.
With the order to go into effect in seventy-two hours, his dilemma became sheer agony.
*
Captain Christopher Hubble entered the General's office and snapped off a salute before his desk. Brodhead seemed positively ashen as he waved young Chris to a chair.
Christopher was prepared for anything from an appeal to a tongue-lashing to come storming through the General's mustache.
"Chris, I'm caught in a bit of a bind, you know. Nasty damned business, what? Hoped to be able to go about it without any bother."
"I'm certain the General recognizes my own particular situation. The Coleraines are the family home regiment, you know, sir."
"Indeed I understand, Chris, indeed I do. I have your resignation here in the middle of this pile."
"I can assure the General that my action was solely of my own doing. I discussed nothing with the others, sir, and have no idea who or how many followed suit."
"Tea?" Brodhead asked, loading up a pipe.
"No, thank you, sir."
He flicked out the match, sucked and billowed. Brodhead's penetrating blue eyes met Christopher Hubble's penetrating blue eyes. "Cardinal sin in the military to involve oneself in politics, you know . . . unless the Army were being used by radicals as a political instrument against our own people. Do you agree with that, Chris?"
"Quite, sir."
"Shall we, let our hair down, you and I?"
"Yes, sir."
Llewelyn Brodhead leaned over his desk, his large knuckle wrapping it with a thump on every second word. "I did not serve in His Majesty's forces for thirty-six years to come to this." He hunched up, spreading his fingers wide as though he were about to leap over the desk. "For years we've stood by watching the Liberal Party set about to dismantle the Empire, piecemeal. Our imperial forces have created and taken on a system of universal order second to nothing the world has ever seen. Now these bloody bastards have, the affront to try to turn us against loyal British citizens. And all of this in behalf of these people down here who would defile the Union Jack, destroy the Empire and stab us in the back in the middle of the night."
Brodhead got a grip on himself. "In three days we cross into Ulster, unless . . ." He stopped deliberately. "Shall I go on, Chris?"
"Please do, Sir Llewelyn."
"Unless," Brodhead continued, "we do something here at Bushy to force them to rescind the order. Of course, a thing like that would require some very special dedication as well as some risk."
Chris nodded.
"Suppose, shall we say, that by tomorrow at noon I have received resignations from every officer in the division, all hundred and forty. Suppose I add my own resignation as well, take this to London and face the Chief of Staff with it as an accomplished fact."
Chris dabbed at the perspiration that suddenly appeared on his face.
The General got up from his desk and resumed pacing along a well-worn track. "Call it what you will, insubordination, mutiny, call it what you will. But the Liberals have to know that if they want this filthy business done, then they'd better scour about for some nigger troops to do it. If they attempt to court-martial us all it could well mean an open rebellion by the entire officer corps of the Army. At best, I think we can get them to call off this madness of occupying Ulster. At worst, I believe a reprimand and removal of the Midlanders from Ireland. I'm not totally sure of the consequences but we've strong friends all up and down the line. Do you think we should give it a go, Chris?"
"I do."
"Good man. Obviously, I think you're the one,"
"I'll try not to disappoint you, sir."
"It has to be to a man. One hundred and forty resignations by noon tomorrow. No exceptions. It's the only way we can win. If anything goes wrong, I'll take the responsibility off you."
"It will be done, General."
"All right, Chris, good luck, get cracking, lad, get cracking."
*
Jeremy Hubble was never the same from the moment Molly O'Rafferty disappeared from Ireland. He made a fool's lunge at trying to locate her about the time he knew the baby was due but he was met by a wall of silence and hatred.
&nb
sp; For a time he fared better when he joined the Coleraine Rifles, then the military unfolded much the same as the other life patterns. His younger brother was cut out of the proper mold, ambitious and brainy. Christopher followed his father's ways from physical appearance to wit in what was a near duplication of personality. Christopher soon won promotion to Captain and stood at the side of General Brodhead, the epitome of a proper aide.
On the other hand, Lord Jeremy was generally characterized by a lack of distinguished qualities. Yet Jeremy was roundly popular as a member of the division rugby team and among the junior officers. He remained easygoing, a good touch for a loan and certainly the pleasanter of the two brothers. He was particularly suited to the role of the good fellow when it came to time away from camp, hosting a perpetual party at Daars or Rathweed Hall or Hubble Manor. It was good fun to hang around with Lord Jeremy and good food, good drink, lots of girls and good sport.
So long as there was a crowd around he was jolly enough, but there were times he drifted off to Dublin alone and wandered in a kind of tragic nostalgia, haunting the pubs that bounded Trinity College. He'd go into a funk that spilled over into days-long drinking bouts terminating in someone's brothel. Jeremy kept himself totally mediocre. He never rose above the rank of second lieutenant nor was there much hope that he would make any kind of inroad.
After a time his adoring grandfather became painfully convinced of Jeremy's incompetence;. He and Roger went about snipping away everything that wasn't in the original entailed holdings of the earldom's charter from the Crown. What would be left for Jeremy would be the title and the original lands around Hubble Manor. These were not self-sustaining so he would be put on an income, a high class dole for all his days, as Roger had done with his own father.
Jeremy would earn his passage by performing public duties as the Earl of Foyle and for producing a suitable male heir. The rest of it would be in Christopher's hands. The only resistance Jeremy seemed capable of mounting was to ward off subtle pressures that he marry and assure a family. There was a finality to it that spelled an end to even the fantasy of Molly O'Rafferty. Roger and Weed decided to let it go until he finished his military service, then settle it with a suitable marriage.
