1921

by Morgan Llywelyn

  Ashe’s body as it lay in the coffin was dressed in the IRA uniform. The shirt had been given him by Michael Collins.

  Thirty thousand people took part in Ashe’s funeral procession. Richard Mulcahy, who now commanded the Second Dublin Battalion and had proved himself superb at organizing, was put in charge of the military arrangements.2 Veterans of the Easter Rising came from all over the country to march in the cortege, which was led by Constance Markievicz with a revolver in her belt.3 Crowds lined the streets along the way; many waved tricolor banners. There were so many the police dare not arrest them all, though names were taken down.

  One of the honor guard chosen to fire three volleys over Ashe’s grave was Edward Joseph Halloran.

  While the echoes still rang, Michael Collins stepped forward.4 He spoke in both English and Irish. “That volley we just heard is the only speech which is proper to make above the grave of a dead Fenian,” he told the mourners. Then he melted into the crowd before anyone could take a photograph of him.

  Ashe’s death whipped up nationalist sentiment to a new high. In Dublin the Volunteer battalions were reorganized as the Dublin Brigade of the Irish Republican Army, with Richard Mulcahy as commandant.

  In a gesture of atonement for Ashe’s death, the British government granted political status to the other Republican prisoners it was holding. This was understood to guarantee them dignified and humane treatment.

  1917 saw the various nationalist factions jockeying for power. Republicans who had been released from prison were busily recruiting more men and women into their ranks. In October the Sinn Féin Party held its tenth annual Árd Fheis, or National Convention, in Dublin.5 By that time only a small percentage of party members still adhered to Arthur Griffith’s philosophy of moral rather than physical resistance.

  Henry Mooney traveled up from Clare to cover the Árd Fheis for the Champion. He thought about taking a motorcab from the train station to Louise Kearney’s house—the Champion would pay for it—but decided to walk instead and set off across the city, watching for a shop where he might buy a trinket for Precious. He turned a corner and—

  There she was.

  Or rather, there they were: three young women strolling along the pavement together, chatting, dressed in the height of fashion, with skirts that revealed trim, silken-clad ankles. One woman was small and dark. One was tall and stately.

  And one was a strawberry blonde wearing one of the new half-veils on her hat.

  Huge brown eyes met Henry’s through a cobweb of silk.

  Chapter Ten

  HENRY thought he walked on without missing a step. He did not look back.

  Ned would say, “Her eyes are the color of sweet sherry,” but that’s not my style. Who, what, where, when, and why, that’s me. Journalists aren’t allowed flights of fancy.

  As if it were a gramophone recording he replayed her voice with its Ascendancy accent in his head. Members of the Anglo-Irish Ascendancy spoke a pure English with little trace of Irish softness. They were Protestant, owned most of the land in Ireland, and sent their children to English schools.

  Big House society. I doubt if she even knows any ordinary Irish people.

  Was she married? No way of telling. Like any proper lady, she wore gloves on the street.

  Proper lady. Wife-and-mother sort of lady. Henry Mooney walked blindly up the street. What’s the matter with me? I know plenty of women with beautiful eyes. I buy their company for the night and go my way in the morning.

  But he could not remember the faces of any of those women; not one. They were wiped from his mind as a slate is erased with a wet cloth.

  I’ll never see her again. Thank God. Yes; thank God. Forget about her. A momentary aberration.

  He walked on.

  AT number 16, Henry received a joyous welcome. Ned pounded him on the back several times, repeating, “Good on you! Time you came home.” Then he hurried off to find a “drop o’ the crayture” for celebrating.

  When Henry leaned down to greet Precious, she almost strangled him with a mighty hug. “Uncle Henry, Uncle Henry!”

  “Did you miss me, Little Business?”

  “I missed you something dreadful, Uncle Henry! I have so many questions I’ve been saving up to ask you. Who was Edith Cavell, and where is Russia, and…”

  Henry’s eyes twinkled. “And were you good while I was gone? No butter on the banisters?”

  “I don’t do that anymore,” she said with cool dignity. “I’ve outgrown that silliness, so I have.” Then she whispered, “Now I put biscuit crumbs in the lodgers’ beds.”

  Henry caught her under the arms and swung her around in a big circle that seriously endangered the parlor furniture. Precious squealed with delight.

  When he put the child down, Louise kissed him on both cheeks, said, “It’s about time you came home,” then hurried out to the kitchen to prepare tea.

  Síle simply held out her hand. She was always formal with him. He had a sense of walls erected around her, a barrier intended to keep out everyone but Ned. Henry understood about walls.

  “We’re glad you’re back,” she said.

  “It’s kind of you to say so.”

  “I mean it. You and Ned are such great friends, and he misses you more than he will admit.”

  He met her gaze squarely. “And what about you, Síle?”

  With a smile that revealed nothing, she said, “It really is good to see you again.”

  “What’s seldom is wonderful,” Henry remarked dryly.

  Precious stepped between them. “Let me carry your suitcase to your room, Uncle Henry!”

  “Leave it—it’s far too heavy for you.”

  Ignoring him, the child tugged at the handle and succeeded in lifting it briefly, then dropped it again, her face red with exertion. “I’ll be able to carry it by Christmas,” she announced with conviction.

  Henry chuckled. “I expect you will, Little Business. I expect you will.”

  THAT evening Henry visited with his friends in their sitting room. Síle brought up a tea tray and a plate of sweet biscuits from the pantry, and after Precious went reluctantly to bed, Ned got out the chessboard. But Henry could not concentrate on the moves.

  “You’re not up to your usual standard, Henry. I never captured your queen before.”

  “I’m sorry, Ned. I suppose I’m thinking too much about tomorrow and the Árd Fheis.”

  “I’m going to be there too, you know.”

  “You didn’t tell me you’d joined Sinn Féin.”

  “I haven’t, at least not yet. I’m going to the convention as a representative of the Irish Republican Army.”

  “Don’t try to talk him out of it,” said Síle. “It won’t do any good.”

  “Don’t I know? No one could ever talk this lad out of anything. But why, Ned? I imagine the place will be watched—what if you’re recognized?”

  “I won’t be. Besides, I want to be there to see the government proved wrong. Dublin Castle’s only allowing the Sinn Féin convention because they think it will result in a final split among the nationalists, but it’s going to have the opposite effect.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Because de Valera’s worked it out beforehand with the National Council. At first Arthur Griffith flatly refused to even consider a republican form of government. He was still talking about establishing a joint monarchy with England. On the other hand, Cathal Brugha threatened to resign from Sinn Féin altogether unless the party officially declared for an Irish Republic. Somehow de Valera managed to convince them both that the way forward meant securing international recognition for Ireland as an independent nation, then allowing the people to choose their form of government themselves.”

  Henry gave a low whistle. “How do you know all this? You’re not on the National Council.”

  “I don’t need to be.” Ned glanced at Síle before adding, “I’ve been doing some work for Mick Collins, and he knows everything.”

  Michael
Collins. Of course.

  Chapter Eleven

  OCTOBER twenty-fifth dawned cold and wet. “You’ll all be destroyed with the damp,” Louise said as she served fried bread and fried eggs for breakfast. “Síle, you put a piece of red flannel around that child’s neck.”

  “My Mam,” Henry remarked, “would say this weather is a bad omen for Sinn Féin.”

  Ned glanced up. “I’ve rarely heard you speak of your mother.”

  “I rarely do.” Henry cut a bite-sized piece of bread and piled some egg on top.

  From Pádraic Pearse, Ned had learned to teach by example. “Precious, did you know that Americans put down the knife after they’ve cut a bite, then transfer the fork to their right hand and use it like a shovel? Then they switch everything back again to cut the next bite. Here, I’ll show you.”

  “Why do they eat the wrong way?” the little girl wondered.

  “It’s not the wrong way, any more than ours is the right way. The two are just different. Something can be different without being wrong.”

  Precious considered this, head cocked to one side. “Like Protestants?”

  Louise choked on a bite of egg. Síle thumped her on the back.

  Henry remarked, “I’ve rarely heard you speak of America, Ned.”

  “I rarely do.” Ned had—almost—wiped his one trip to America from his mind. The ocean voyage in 1912 to attend his sister’s wedding. The great ship sinking. His parents drowned. The return to Ireland, numb with grief.

  America was like a black hole in Ned’s memory.

  He saw Henry regarding him sympathetically. “Sometimes things pop into our heads when we least expect them,” the journalist commented.

  A look of understanding passed between the two friends. Síle saw it—and felt a pang of envy.

  “ORIGINALLY a private home,” Henry wrote in his notebook, “the Mansion House was purchased by the Dublin Corporation in 1715 as a residence for the city’s lord mayor. In two hundred years its exterior appearance has changed dramatically. The red brick walls are now covered with painted plaster and embellished with frivolous cast-iron work and balustrades. The building resembles a Victorian wedding cake.”

  One small flight of fancy would do no harm.

  Ned had gone to the Mansion House early to meet with members of his old company. By the time Henry arrived, the entrance hall was crowded with people. Hands waving, heads nodding, an occasional angry outburst, a less frequent placating murmur. The more thoughtful men chewed their mustaches or stroked their beards.

  Henry recognized representatives of all the nationalist groups, including Cumann na mBan, the women’s organization that had played an active role in the Rising. In the bleak days following the surrender it was the women, even more than the men, who had kept the Republican ideal alive. Wives and daughters, mothers and sisters, refusing to let the grave triumph. A few of the women were smoking the dainty scented cigarettes called My Darling’s Cigarettes, which had become popular in recent years. Smoking in public was a small symbol of a larger emancipation.

  With a nod here and a handshake there, Henry worked his way through the crowd to the large assembly hall known as the Round Room.

  “Mooney, reporting for the Clare Champion,” he told the fresh-faced lad at the door.

  “Clare, is it? You’d be a de Valera man, then.”

  “How many people are you expecting?”

  “I’m told there are seventeen hundred official delegates, sir. Sinn Féin has over a hundred and fifty thousand members countrywide now. You’d best take a seat, we’ll be starting soon.”

  Henry was directed to join the other newspaper reporters standing in the railed gallery that overlooked the floor of the hall. He peered down at the rows of seats below but could not find Ned among the delegates. He wondered which of the men in the room was Michael Collins.

  Although Collins had worked for de Valera’s Clare campaign, Henry had not met him personally nor seen any photographs of him. As befitted a member of the secretive Irish Republican Brotherhood, the man from County Cork kept a low profile. But his name was heard more and more frequently in nationalist circles, and Henry had been doing some quiet research on him.

  During Easter Week Collins had played a minor role as Joseph Plunkett’s aide-de-camp. He almost slipped through the net when members of the Irish Republican Army were being deported after the surrender. While imprisoned in Frongoch internment camp in North Wales—where the two main streets were called “Pearse” and “Connolly”—he formed a branch of the IRB under the very noses of the British. On the strength of this he was admitted to the Supreme Council of the Brotherhood.

  The Royal Irish Constabulary office in Dublin Castle had a department known as Special Branch. About this time, Special Branch had begun expanding its file on Michael Collins.

  After he returned to Ireland at Christmas, Collins had immersed himself in Republican causes. In February he became secretary to the Irish National Aid fund, which had been established by Tom Clarke’s widow to help the dependants of dead or imprisoned Republicans.1 Working out of offices at 32 Bachelor’s Walk in the heart of Dublin, Collins somehow also found time for the ladies. He was said to have “a rag on every bush,” meaning he courted many girls but proposed marriage to none. His engaging personality was much sought-after by Dublin hostesses, and he rarely missed a party or a dance.

  All in all, a young man of impressive energy.

  But which one is he? Henry leaned over the rail to scan the hall.

  Members of the Sinn Féin executive committee occupied padded benches toward the front of the room. As Henry leaned forward, one of them turned around to glance up at the gallery. From beneath the brim of a plain navy blue hat, Kathleen Clarke caught Henry’s eye and waved. He sketched a salute in return.

  The British had executed her husband and her brother, but Mrs. Clarke was not broken. Nothing could break her. Tom Clarke had put his faith in his wife and she had never failed him. Now like a buffer she was seated between Arthur Griffith and Cathal Brugha, men of diametrically opposed views. As Henry watched, she cheerfully engaged them both in conversation.

  Henry jotted down a few paragraphs for expansion later. “Arthur Griffith is opposed to any form of violence, yet once held membership in the IRB.2 Simultaneously an idealist and a realist, Griffith was one of the primary forces in stimulating the nationalist revival. He spent years developing detailed plans for reviving the Irish economy, eliminating slums, and improving the entire social structure, plans he hoped to bring to fruition through the political action of Sinn Féin. To demonstrate another facet of his character, when he was imprisoned by the British after the Rising, Griffith chose to treat the whole thing as a paid holiday. He kept up the morale of his fellow prisoners with his unfailing cheerfulness.”

  The pencil point was blunted. Henry paused long enough to sharpen it with his penknife. Smell of graphite, thin curl of wood shavings: memories of school. Why are the remembered smells of childhood the strongest?

  He resumed writing. “During the Rising, Cathal Brugha was second-in-command to Eamonn Ceannt at the South Dublin Union. The attack climaxed with a six-hour battle punctuated by bombs and grenades. Desperate men pursued one another through the building in a deadly game of hide-and-seek until the British advance was halted by Brugha, who was entrenched alone behind a strategic barricade. Although repeatedly wounded, he continued to defend his position for over two hours. His comrades assumed him dead and waited in despair to be overrun. Then they heard, faint but defiant, Brugha’s hoarse voice singing ‘God Save Ireland.’ They rushed to his side and resumed the battle. That night the British called off the attack; the South Dublin Union remained in Republican hands until the surrender.

  “In hospital, Brugha was found to have more than twenty-five bullet and shrapnel fragments in his body. He was considered as good as dead. The British did not even bother to bring charges against him. They misjudged his strength and spirit. Though permanently lame, Cat
hal Brugha is here today.” Henry shook his head with admiration as he wrote the last sentence.

  But where’s Michael Collins?

  “Here comes de Valera,” said the reporter on Henry’s left, gesturing to a towering figure in an old Volunteer uniform making his way through the crowd. People stepped back to make way for him. With the death of Thomas Ashe, de Valera had become the only surviving commandant from the Rising. He was regarded with awe.

  They’ll give Dev whatever he asks for, Henry told himself.

  The convention opened with an address by Arthur Griffith. A sturdy, bespectacled figure with a square face and crisp mustache, Sinn Féin’s founder radiated energy. When he walked, he bounced off the balls of his feet. “The position we dreamed of for so long has been achieved,” he announced triumphantly. His voice was too high to make him an effective orator, but his message was welcome on its own. “Ireland has rejected the union with Britain. The Irish voters have pledged themselves to Sinn Féin and independence. Now we need a constituent assembly for the new Republic.”

  “A republic the world has yet to recognize,” growled the man on Henry’s left. “But they will. We’ll make ’em.”

  When it was his turn to speak, Cathal Brugha received a standing ovation. He put aside his crutch and stood erect, like a soldier on parade. Brugha was slight and thin, with a long nose and wavy brown hair meticulously parted on the left side. The businesslike tweed suit he wore gave no hint of the character beneath. Lame he might be, but he was the toughest man in the hall, and everyone there knew it.

  Staring modestly at the floor, Brugha waited until the noise died down. Then he proposed a new party constitution, which he read aloud. It would deny the right of any foreign government to make laws for Ireland. It also promised to use “any and every means available to render impotent the power of England to hold Ireland in subjugation by military force or otherwise.”3