“For the moment,” Lee said calmly. “But when you have had your election we will be more than happy to leave. You will have your own police force then to protect you, an army of your own as well to guard against foreign invasion if that is threatened. We have offered you freedom from foreign rule. You would be wise to take it.”
The mayor glared pure hatred. Unspoken was the knowledge that his Protestant majority in Northern Ireland would now be a minority in Catholic Ireland.
“You cannot be sure that the new Ireland will not have a place for you,” Surgeon Reynolds said quietly. “If we fight for equality we may be able to forget the inequalities of the past. Is that not worth working for? Do you see my blue uniform and General Lee’s gray one? Do you know the significance of this? We fought a terrible civil war, brother killing brother — and now we have turned our backs on it and live in peace. Can you not abandon your tribal loyalties and learn to live in peace with your brothers who share this island? Isn’t that a goal worth achieving, an ambition worth attaining?”
His answer was only grim silence. But from their expressions it was obvious that the two men were not pleased with the prospect of a brave new world.
Lee spoke into the silence.
“You gentlemen may go. Please contact me at any time concerning matters of the public good. We are all on the same side, as Surgeon Reynolds has so eloquently said.
“The side of peace.”
Despite General Sherman’s refusal to let him be anywhere near the invasion fleet, John Stuart Mill had still managed to arrive in Ireland as soon as hostilities were at an end. By appealing directly to President Lincoln, who had spoken to the Secretary of the Navy, who had confided in Admiral Farragut, who in turn had gone to Commodore Goldsborough for aid. Goldsborough made the eminently practical suggestion that Mill should see the war from the deck of his ship, the USS Avenger. Since the British had no ironclads that could better — or even equal — her in strength, his safety would not be put into question. Mill greatly enjoyed this wartime experience, particularly when the great ship had fired at an unseen target in Dublin, using the most modern communication, and had in this manner brought about the surrender of the British troops in Dublin Castle.
Only when martial law had been partially lifted was he permitted ashore. Even then a troop of cavalry escorted his carriage from the dock to Fitzwilliam Square, while General Sherman’s aide, Colonel Roberts, accompanied him.
“It is a splendid city,” Mill said looking at the leafy square and the handsome Georgian houses that surrounded it. The colonel pointed.
“There it is, number ten. It is all yours. Don’t know who the owner is yet, but we do know that he left with one bag on the first mailboat from Kingstown after hostilities ended. So it is yours for as long as you need it.”
The two soldiers on guard outside saluted as they went in. “Wonderful, wonderful,” Mill said as they walked through the elegant rooms and admired the handsome garden to the rear. “A suitable setting for the foundation of a new state. Here will meet the men whose task that will be. Thank heavens that they will have such an excellent model to hand, less than a hundred years old.”
“I think, at this point, that you have lost me, sir.”
“Nonsense, my dear fellow, you know all about this Union that you fight to defend. You should be very proud of it. You have your own Congress — and your own Constitution. It was indeed the rule of law, and constitutional responsibility, as pointed out by Lord Coke, that your founding fathers used as a model. It is my great hope that Ireland shall build upon that model in return. First a constitutional congress — and then a constitution. Remember, that all during the Revolutionary period, Americans relied upon their possession of the rights of Englishmen, and the claim that infringement upon those rights was unconstitutional and void. That claim could not, however, rest upon a secure legal foundation until the rights of Americans were protected in written organic instruments. Such protection came with the adoption of written constitutions and bills of rights in the states, as soon as independence had severed their ties with the mother country. The American army has indeed succeeded in severing the Irish ties with Great Britain. Now I am sure that you are wondering how the rights guaranteed by these new constitutions can be enforced?”
Colonel Roberts was thinking nothing of the kind. In fact he wished that he were back in the heat of battle rather than facing up to the seemingly incomprehensible enthusiasms of John Stuart Mill. “Guaranteed rights…” he finally muttered. “Enforced?”
“As, of course, they must be protected. The American genius was the adaptation of a system of checks and balances. The answer to this question is, of course, ultimately, judicial review. That is the function of the Supreme Court. Ireland is very much in need of this rule of law. For the British have never looked upon Ireland as an integral part of the United Kingdom, like Scotland, but as a remote and certainly different part. A backward land set in unprofitable and obscurantist ways of life and thought. All that will change. As a new democracy, separate at last, this country can only look forward to a brilliant future.”
17 MARCH 1864
Perhaps it was the power of prayer rising from every church across the land that brought this particular sunrise, shining golden shafts across the sea. For over two weeks it had rained ceaselessly, remorselessly, cruelly, until it was a wonder that all of Ireland was not washed into the surrounding ocean. Surely everyone was praying for an end of the rain on this most important of all days.
Nevertheless, from dawn to dusk, on the Wednesday it had rained as hard as on any other of the days. But not a cloud was in sight on Thursday morning, St. Patrick’s Day morning, the birth-of-a-country morning.
Mist rose from the grass in Phoenix Park, Dublin, to be burned away by the sun. The tock-tock of hammers on wood sounded through the still air as the final work was done on the viewing stands. Soldiers, in their new dark green uniforms, marched and stamped and saluted as they changed the guard and, my, but there was a new rhythm to their march.
“ ’Tis a grand day,” the captain of the old guard said.
“Aye — and a grand day for old Ireland,” said the captain of the new.
The city was waking, streamers of smoke lazing up from the myriad chimneypots. The clop of horses’ hooves sounded on cobbles as the bakers’ carts made their rounds. Above Sackville Street, across and down the street from the General Post Office, a man was standing at the open window of the Gresham Hotel, breathing in the fresh morning air. The lines of tension on his forehead, and around his eyes, eased a bit as he rubbed long fingers through his thick, and graying, beard.
“Come away from that window — you’ll get your death,” Mary called out from the depths of the feather bed.
“Yes, mother,” Abraham Lincoln said as he closed the window. “But it is a glorious day — how fitting for such a glorious occasion.”
“Noon, you said, the ceremony. We must leave time…”
He sat on the bed and patted her hand. “We have all the time in the world. The carriage will be here at eleven. This will be a day to remember, indeed it will.”
He was glad now that he had insisted she come for this most important of ceremonies. His advisers had wanted him to use the time for electioneering for the presidential election in the fall. But the strain of the war had left him drained. And he wanted to devote some time to Mary, who was suffering more and more from melancholia. It had been a wise decision. Much of her listlessness had gone, the wandering attention, the sudden bouts of crying. The ocean voyage had helped; she had been much taken by their luxurious staterooms aboard the new steam liner the United States. And Dublin had been one party after another as ministers and officials from dozens of countries vied each to outdo the other.
Abraham Lincoln wandered through the suite, found the sitting room where he rugged on the bell pull. The knock on the door seemed to come brief instants later; he ordered coffee. Sat sipping it after it came.
The Irish
had outdone themselves in their enthusiasm for their new-found democracy. A quickly assembled committee of politicians and lawyers, under the gentle guidance of John Stuart Mill, had hammered out a constitution, based, like the Mexican constitution of 1823, upon the American model. The judges of the new Supreme Court had been chosen, and preparation for a national election was soon in hand.
Even while this was going on the closed-up constabulary stations were being opened and dusted out, while the first officers of the National Police were installed there. What if many of them were veterans of the American army? They were strong and willing — and were Irish. Policemen who were no longer the servants of foreign masters to be feared rather than trusted. The fact that their senior officers were all volunteers from the American army was, of course, known, but since they were never seen in public little notice was made of it. These were temporary commands, the public were assured, until the police themselves had more experience.
In Belfast and the north an uneasy truce prevailed. When the last British soldiers had been seized and cleared from the land, martial law had been eased. But the American soldiers remained in the barracks and were quick to respond to any breaches of the peace. Political meetings were encouraged; political marches strictly banned. Surgeon Reynolds was relieved of his medical duties and sat on the Ulster Police Committee screening candidates for the new National Police. Discrimination by religion was completely forbidden: no one could be asked his religion. But his address, that was something else again, since everyone in the north knew their tribal lands to the inch. Under Reynolds’s watchful eye, and the quick clamping down on any dissension, the police force was slowly organized. Not by chance, half Protestant, half Catholic.
The pay was good, the uniforms new, promotion fast for the talented.
Dismissal instant at the slightest hint of religious discrimination. The police ranks thinned, then grew again, until they finally stabilized. Like it or not, Ireland, both north and south, was becoming a country of law and equality; discrimination was no longer the rule.
The elections ran far more smoothly than anyone had expected. Of course some of the districts had ballot boxes with more votes than voters, but after all this was Ireland and this sort of thing was expected. Events got a bit riotous on election night and a few heads had to be knocked. But no records were kept, there would be no recriminations, and the cells were turned out next morning.
In five short months the sweet breath of liberty had swept across the land. The courts were opened and Irish judges presided. The Encumbered Estates Courts were abandoned. The new courts ruled fairly on old disputes, settled ancient land claims, presided over the partitioning of giant English estates. The Duke of Leinster had to bid farewell to his 73,000 acres in Kildare and Meath, the Marquis of Downshire lost 115,000 acres as well. Each court dispensed justice beneath the eyes of an officer of the American Provost Marshall General’s Office. Americans had fought — and died — to win this war. They were not going to lose the peace. They wanted old feuds forgotten, old differences finally put by. And so far it seemed to be working.
In a week the newly elected Congress would be seated in the Senate Building in Dublin.
And today the first democratically elected President of the Irish Republic, Jeremiah O’Donovan Rossa would be sworn into office. That the new Chief Justice of the Supreme Court would administer the oath, not Archbishop Cullen, was a law that was firmly implanted in the new Constitution, and strongly backed by the liberating army. There was an iron fist inside the velvet glove. The bishops, who had worked hard to remain in power, were put out by what they claimed was the bypassing of their authority.
The Americans were adamant. Church and State were separate. Religion had no place in politics. The new constitution was very clear on this matter and could not be challenged. If John Stuart Mill was advising from behind the scenes only his spirit was observed, never the man himself.
Ambassadors from around the world had assembled for this great occasion. Only the ambassador from Great Britain was not there; though that country had been asked. There had been no response to the request.
While across the Irish Sea a fierce argument was raging in Britain. Most strongly heard was the war party. A stab in the back, an assault on a peaceful country, soldiers killed, revenge for besmirched honor called for. Far less vociferous was the voice of reason; after all the Irish problem that had always caused so much dissension down through the years had been settled once and for all. Very few listened to reason. Parliament passed bills raising more troops, while regiments were on their way home from Mexico and the Far East. Ironclads made swift raids along the Irish coast, burning any buildings that flew the new green flag with its golden harp. More American warships appeared in Irish ports to patrol the beleaguered coast.
But all of this was forgotten on this most historical of all St. Patrick’s Days. At first light the crowds began streaming into Phoenix Park. It was full to bursting by eleven in the morning and the carriages of the honored guests could only enter after the soldiers had made a lane for them. The viewing stands filled quickly. President Lincoln, and the first lady, were seated on the platform close to the president elect.
“I must congratulate you on a landslide victory,” Lincoln said. “This is not your first public office, I understand.”
“Indeed it is not. I was elected to the British parliament by the good people of Tipperary,” Jeremiah O’Donovan Rossa said. “Though the British would not allow me to take my seat since they had arrested me earlier for being a Fenian. There is too much bigotry in Ireland, on all sides. This is why I insisted on having Isaac Butt as my Vice-President. He is a Protestant lawyer who defended me at my trial. To me he symbolizes the drawing together of all the peoples of this troubled island. Now I must thank you, Mr. President. Thank you, and your stout soldiers and officers, for what you have done for this country. Words cannot express our feelings of gratitude…”
“Why I thought you were doing right fine there.”
“Then let me take your hand and say that this is the most important moment of my life. Ireland free, my imminent inauguration, in my hand that of the great man who made it all possible. Bless you, President Lincoln, the thanks and blessing of all the Irish people are yours.”
It was indeed a memorable day. The speeches were long and windy, but no one cared. The inauguration ceremony brief, the acceptance speech well received. All the excitement had been a bit much for Mary, and the President called for their carriage. But not before Lincoln had sent a message to General Sherman to join him in the hotel. The President waited for him in the sitting room while Mary took her rest. There were some reports and letters waiting for him and he went through them. Smiled at the letter from young Ambrosio O’Higgins who was apparently going into Mexican politics, for which he was well suited. It appeared that he had visited the British road in Mexico, which was now abandoned and deserted. The locals had no use for it and the jungle was quickly taking over.
Sherman found Lincoln at the window, looking down on the celebrating crowds in Sackville Street.
“Come in, Cumph,” Lincoln said, hurrying across the room to shake his hand. “This is the first real chance I have had to congratulate you on your marvelous victory by force of arms. And not only you — but Lee in the north, Jackson in the south.”
“Thank you, sir, it is greatly appreciated. We have good troops, the highest morale — and the deadliest weapons that soldier ever fired. The Gatling guns carried the day. We have heard from captured prisoners that the mere sound of them struck terror into their troops.”
“It was a war well won.”
“And a peace well won as well.” Sherman pointed at the crowded street below.
“It was indeed. If only…”
They looked down the street to the River Liffey and in their minds’ eyes further still across the Irish Sea and to the land beyond.
“I wonder if they will accept the reality of their defeat?” Lincoln said quietl
y, speaking to himself.
“Their soldiers fought bravely and well. It is not them that we must fear. But the politicians, it appears that they will not let this matter rest.”
“We must have peace. Not peace at any price — but a lasting and just peace. The Council of Berlin starts next week, and our ambassadors are already there. They have had sympathetic talks with the French and Germans. The British delegates will arrive soon. With Lord Palmerston at their head. There must be peace.” Lincoln said it more in hope, than with any positive feeling.
“There must be peace now,” Sherman agreed. “But we must be prepared for war. Only the strength of our navy and army will keep the enemy at bay.”
“Speak politely — but make sure that the rifle hanging over the mantelpiece is loaded. That’s what an old rail-splitter might say.”
“Truer words were never spoken, Mr. President. Never truer.”
SPRING — 1863
THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
Abraham Lincoln President of the United States
Hannibal Hamlin Vice-President
William H. Seward Secretary of State
Edwin M. Stanton Secretary of War
Gideon Welles Secretary of the Navy
Salmon P. Chase Secretary of the Treasury
Gustavus Fox Assistant Secretary of the Navy
Edward Bates Attorney General
Judah P. Benjamin Secretary for the South
John Nicolay First Secretary to President Lincoln
John Hay Secretary to President Lincoln
William Parker Parrott Gunsmith
John Ericsson Inventor of USS Monitor
Frederick Douglass of the Freedmen’s Bureau
UNITED STATES ARMY
General William Tecumseh Sherman
General Ulysses S. Grant
General Ramsay Head of Ordnance Department
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