Cathal Brugha’s words were met with a thunderous roar of approval. The constitution was passed unanimously.
“Here we go,” said the man on Henry’s left. “Up the Republic!”
There were numerous issues to be resolved. The decision was taken to put forward Republican candidates for every seat in the next general election. Sinn Féin would be in charge of organization and fundraising, with the understanding that the winners would refuse to take their seats in the British parliament. They would join instead in a new Irish national assembly. As Henry wrote, “From now on, Irish republicanism will operate under the banner of Sinn Féin, which is an ironic outcome considering that the British willfully misnamed the movement ‘Sinn Féin’ in the first place.”
Eventually Henry’s lower back began to ache from standing so long. He went outside to walk up and down for a few minutes. The rain had passed and a watery sun was shining. As he emerged from the Mansion House, he noticed that two women had set up easels on the pavement and were sketching the architectural wedding cake. One of the women unpinned her hat—a springlike confection of straw and flowers—and removed it to reveal billowing masses of reddish-gold hair piled atop her head. A few tendrils artlessly escaped to caress her temples.
Henry was down the steps before he knew it.
“WHY don’t you go over and speak to her?” queried a voice behind him.
Henry whirled around. “Where did you come from? I didn’t see you inside.”
Ned replied with a wicked grin, “I was there, practicing a skill I’ve learned from Mick Collins—hiding in plain sight.”
“And Collins, is he inside too?”
“Of course he is, he and Seán MacGarry are officially representing the IRB. Mick hopes to be elected to the Sinn Féin executive committee, and Mrs. Clarke will nominate him. But you’re not interested in Mick right now, are you? You look positively smitten. As I said before, why don’t you go over and speak to the lady?”
“She’s obviously a lady, and we haven’t been introduced, that’s why.”
“Is that all? Come on.” Ned’s posture underwent a dramatic change. Affecting a graceful insouciance, he sauntered toward the two women. When he was almost past them he paused, then doubled back. “I say, it is you, isn’t it?” he asked the strawberry blonde. Any trace of his Clare accent had vanished. He spoke convincing Mayfair English.
“I beg your pardon?”
“We met ages ago and I don’t expect you to remember me, but I could never forget you. It’s just…you must forgive me. I have the most appalling memory for names,” he drawled.
“Mrs. Rutledge.”
She’s married. Of course she’s married. Thank God, Henry thought.
“Ella Rutledge,” the woman elaborated. “And you are…”
“Edward Halloran, of course. I knew you’d remember. Topping to see you again.” Ned turned toward Henry. “This is my friend Henry Mooney. Henry, I should like to introduce Mrs. Rutledge. Do you remember my singing her praises after the ball?”
At the mention of a ball Ella Rutledge looked mollified.
That’s clever of Ned, thought Henry. She must go to any number of balls and meet any number of men; she can’t possibly remember them all.
Mrs. Rutledge then introduced her sister, Madge Mansell—the small, dark one of the original trio. Madge had a heart-shaped face and a voluptuous little figure.
Henry barely noticed her.
Seen without a veil, Ella Rutledge had tiny lines in the delicate skin around her eyes. She was in her late twenties, with regal posture and a corseted waist still small enough for Henry to span with his two hands. Hers was a fine-boned beauty that would never surrender to age. She had removed her doeskin gloves for sketching. Henry could not help a surreptitious glance at the circlet of gold and diamonds on one slim finger.
They stood chatting on the pavement while pedestrians skirted around them. Ned was giving an excellent imitation of an Englishman. Ella Rutledge said to Henry, “From your accent I assume you are Irish?”
“I am Irish. From County Limerick.”
She rewarded him with a warm smile. He discovered that she had dimples. A beguiling indentation in each cheek, just beyond the curve of her lips. A dimple is the mark left by an angel’s touch when it blesses a baby. Where did I hear that? “I believe we have distant relatives in Limerick,” she was saying. “They used to be in the banking business there.”
Madge interjected, “Our sister-in-law Ava could tell you about them—she’s very keen on genealogy. She’s traced every drop of noble blood in our family tree.”
Not our crowd at all, thought Henry.
Ned said, “Isn’t it interesting that the first thing we in Ireland do is exchange pedigrees? I’m not sure I approve—it’s a bit like comparing livestock at a fair.” He turned to Madge. “Living people are much more interesting than dead ancestors, don’t you agree, Miss Mansell?”
Ned proceeded to draw out the ladies with a combination of flattering charm and pretended knowledge. Thus Henry learned that their mother was born in Belfast and that their Dublin-born father had been an officer in the British army. Both parents were now deceased. The women had one brother, Edwin, whose wife, Ava, was the third of the trio Henry had seen. They all lived together in Dublin.
“Ava’s the family beauty,” Ella Rutledge said laughingly. “My late husband used to call us the Three Graces.”
“I’m sorry,” Ned murmured. “I was unaware of your bereavement.”
The light went out of her face. “He was an officer in the Royal Navy. He was killed at the Battle of Jutland.”
A year and a half, Henry calculated swiftly. She’s been a widow for a year and a half.
THAT evening as the two men walked back to the boardinghouse, Henry alluded only once to their recent encounter. “I remember when you were shy. Now you’re a positive genius when it comes to talking to women.”
Ned shrugged. “It’s easy to talk to women when you know that the only one in the world for you is waiting at home.”
“Ah.”
After a time Ned thought he heard Henry say under his breath, “Sweet sherry.”
“Sorry?”
An embarrassed chuckle. “Guess I was thinking out loud again. It’s a bad habit I’ve got into.”
“Comes from living alone,” Ned commented.
Autumn night. Footsteps echoing in half-deserted streets. Fitful wind stirring rubbish in the gutters.
Sudden rectangle of yellow light as a shop door was opened; mouthwatering smell of salty hot grease.
Henry stopped abruptly. “Are you hungry, Ned? The chipper’s still open.”
“Síle’s waiting for me.”
“We can take some home with us. You know Little Business loves fish and chips.”
Still Ned hesitated. “I’m a family man; I never have any money. Remember what they say: ‘From the day you marry your heart will be in your mouth and your hand in your pocket.’”
“Come on then, family man. I’m buying.”
Ned grinned. “You’re a brick.”
Huge slabs of batter-fried cod and thick fingers of potato were served in cones of newspaper translucent with grease. Ned and Henry stood shoulder to shoulder at the counter, sprinkling the piping hot food with salt and lashings of malt vinegar.
As they were leaving, Ned remarked, “You’re right, you know. Her eyes are the color of sweet sherry.”
Chapter Twelve
October 26, 1917
DE VALERA ELECTED PRESIDENT OF SINN FÉIN AT PARTY ÁRD FHEIS
FATHER MICHAEL Ó FLANAGAN TO BE VICE-PRESIDENT
THAT night Henry went over his notes before joining the others in the dining room. Something was bothering him, a warning flag at the back of his brain.
Arthur Griffith had been the president of Sinn Féin since its founding. Its original inspiration had come from him. Yet he had just stepped aside and accepted the vice-presidency of the party to make way for de Valera, wh
o was a very different sort of man. In two days Sinn Féin had been utterly transformed.
Early in his acceptance speech, de Valera had placated Griffith by saying, “We do not wish to bind the people to any form of government.” A few minutes later, however, he reassured Republicans with equal sincerity. “It is necessary for us to be united now to the flag we are going to fight for, that of the Irish Republic. We have nailed the flag to the mast and we shall never lower it.”1
The double standard thus adopted united the moderates and the militants by allowing each to think they would get what they wanted through the newly enlarged Sinn Féin. But it made Henry uncomfortable. It was not the first ambiguous speech he had heard Eamon de Valera give.
That night at the table he remarked to Ned, “Dev’s a bit of a slippery character. He may be a politician now, but he was a warrior first, and he still wears the Volunteer uniform. At the Árd Fheis he suggested that every Sinn Féin club buy a rifle so its members could learn how to use one.2 With that sort of thinking, I don’t hold out much hope for a negotiated settlement between us and Britain.”
Ned’s eyes flashed. “What good is political negotiation when one side has all the power?”
Following the Sinn Féin Árd Fheis, the Irish Republican Army held a secret convention of its own. When he returned to number 16 afterward, Ned found Henry in the parlor reading to Precious. The little girl had pulled a footstool close to his armchair and was listening enthralled to an account of pony races in County Meath.
“Oh, Uncle Henry, I would so love a pony!”
“Easy to say if you’ve never had to care for one. I’m not over-fond of shoveling muck, myself.”
“I wouldn’t mind that. There’s lots that’s dirtier than horse muck.”
“Horses can be dangerous, Little Business. One panicked while my father was shoeing it and broke his back.”
“I’m not going to shoe my pony,” she replied with irrefutable logic. “I’m too little. I’m just going to ride it.”
Ned said, “If she’s talking about ‘my pony,’ Henry, she’s already determined to have one. I don’t thank you for putting the idea in her head. You know it’s impossible.”
Henry winked at Precious. “You never know what the future holds.” He turned to Ned. “How was the meeting?”
“We elected de Valera as president of the executive committee.3 Seán MacGarry is general secretary, Cathal Brugha is chief of staff, Richard Mulcahy is director of training, and Michael Collins is director of organization. He’s also drawn up a new constitution for us, just as he’s done for the IRB.”
Michael Collins again. And the IRB. “Can I print any of that?”
“Of course not.”
“So now Dev’s heading up both a constitutional political party and an outlawed militia,” Henry observed. “It’ll be interesting to see how the Long Fellow manages to wear the two hats at the same time. And speaking of time…” He took his pocket watch from his waistcoat and flicked open the case. “If I want to make the last train I had best be going, Ned. I’ve already said my goodbyes to Louise and your wife—I was just waiting for you.”
“You’re leaving now? We hoped you would spend more time with us.”
“I have a job, you know. I really wish I could stay a few days longer, but…”
Ned clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t look so glum, old fellow. I’ll find out her Dublin address for you. Then I know you’ll come back sooner rather than later.”
HENRY commented in the Champion: “The recent Sinn Féin Árd Fheis successfully united the two major strands of nationalism: those who believe physical force is necessary to win our independence, and those like Arthur Griffith who favor moral resistance. Now they speak with one voice.”
Yet that warning flag still fluttered at the back of his mind.
He had more than Irish politics to write about. Bad news from the battle fronts of Europe was a constant. At the end of October, the Italian front collapsed. The Germans were using poison gas, followed by heavy artillery, and Italian casualties were enormous.
“The Great War has changed my writing style,” Henry commented in a letter to Ned. Letters kept alive the tradition of thoughtful conversation the two men had long enjoyed. “Death and horror require a stark, stripped-down language. Refined phraseology has no place; this is not a boating party on the Shannon but trench warfare. Yet I wonder, Ned—is the way we newspapermen describe this thing trivializing its appalling nature? Will so many uncushioned facts piled upon one another eventually erect an emotional wall between the event and the observer, so that people no longer feel an individual responsibility?
“Men like Pádraic Pearse felt that responsibility, but they subscribed to the romantic nationalism of an earlier era. They truly believed that mankind had a higher nature and right would prevail. Things are changing rapidly now. Those ideals seem old-fashioned, gone the way of knights in armor. How can they be sustained in the face of millions of corpses piled high on bloody battlefields?
“But Ned—if we lose our idealism, what the hell will we become? I don’t know how I feel about any of this. I only know that I feel.”
Ignoring the advice of the Irish Party, the British government redistributed parliamentary representation for Ireland. The Ulster Unionists were to receive seven or eight new seats. The power of the minority was thus hugely increased. A despairing John Redmond commented, “Our position in this House is made futile, we are never listened to.”4
In November, the Bolsheviks overthrew the provisional government in Petrograd. It was Russia’s second revolution in eight months.
Chapter Thirteen
THE New Year, 1918, brought rationing to Britain and an explosion of military activity to County Clare.
“Maneuvers have become an everyday occurrence,” Henry reported in the Champion. “Companies of Volunteers, now proudly styling themselves the Irish Republican Army, are drilling on every sports field and country road.”
The authorities grew alarmed. Fights broke out between the IRA and the RIC. A Republican squad was arrested and jailed in Limerick, where the men promptly went on hunger strike. When they were brought before the magistrate, a number of their comrades packed the courtroom and reduced order to chaos, shouting and waving to one another, singing rebel songs, leaving their seats to create a milling eddy that surged back and forth across the courtroom. While the police had their hands full trying to reestablish control, the prisoners seized their opportunity and escaped. Embedded in a crush of bodies, the RIC men could only watch helplessly.
The humiliation of the police was duly reported the next day in the Champion. “Our merry-hearted lads know how to have a good time even in court,” Henry commented.
On the twenty-seventh of February, he had just arrived at the newspaper office when a constable came in carrying a folder. Henry knew the man; Ennis was a small town. “Who’s in charge here?” the constable asked with stiff formality. His tone was strangely at odds with his facial expression, which was almost apologetic. He looked at the walls, the floor—anywhere but at Henry.
“I expect you want Sarsfield, but he hasn’t come in yet. He’ll be here any moment if you care to wait. Is there anything I can do for you in the meantime, John?”
The constable took a sheet of paper from the folder. “Here, you can print this on the front page of the Champion. In a box. Bold type. There’ll be announcements posted all over town as well.” For the first time the constable’s eyes met Henry’s. “I’m sorry about this, you know. It’s none of my doing.”
As the constable left the office Henry was reading the notice.
“The County of Clare is hereby proclaimed a Military Area from this date. The County is to be Garrisoned. Weapons of All Types are Prohibited to Civilians. The Authorities will assume Censorship for the Protection and Peace of Mind of the Populace.”
“Jumping Judas!” Henry crushed the notice in his fist and hurled it as far as he could. “Great jumping Judas Iscariot
!”
The door opened; Sarsfield Maguire entered on a blast of cold air. “The weather’s desperate today and I—” He stopped when he saw the look on Henry’s face. “What’s wrong?”
Henry retrieved the crumpled ball of paper and wordlessly handed it to him.
Maguire smoothed it out on a desktop and read through it once, then again. “Not this paper,” he vowed through gritted teeth. “They’re not going to censor the Champion while there’s breath in my body.”
AT the beginning of March, the Bolsheviks signed a humiliating peace treaty with Germany for which they were excoriated by the Allies.
In Ireland one word was on everyone’s lips: conscription.
The Allies in Europe were in desperate need of reinforcements. The Russians had withdrawn and the Americans had not yet arrived. The Parliamentary Party vehemently opposed conscription for Ireland, warning that it could precipitate another rebellion. They were aware that some two hundred thousand young Irish men were organizing resistance to British rule in their own country.
The military establishment, however, pressed for a policy of seizing all Irish men of fighting age, scattering them among the English regiments, and if they would not fight for Britain, shooting them.1 A proposed military services act enforcing conscription was seen as the most efficient method of ridding Ireland of revolutionaries.
By now Ireland was full of revolutionaries.
On the sixth of March, Henry wrote an obituary. “Died today after a brief illness, John Redmond, leader of the Irish Parliamentary Party. Redmond worked to the end of his life in hopes of gaining home rule for this country.”
When he put the obituary on Sarsfield Maguire’s desk, Henry said, “I’m sorry poor old Redmond’s gone, even if he was a fool for believing the government every time they promised him home rule was just around the corner. Naïveté is a common Irish trait, God knows. I think he tried to do the right thing as he saw it, though.”
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