With a sigh, she seated herself at her dressing table and peered at her face in the looking glass. The light from the window revealed dark smudges under her eyes. A woman’s beauty melts away like snow, she thought. Men are more fortunate; other qualities matter more than appearance.
Her gaze turned to the silver-framed photograph on her dressing table. Her favorite Christmas present. It was a cabinet portrait taken by Keogh Bros. Ltd., Dorset Street, and the subject obviously was unused to having his picture taken. His pose was stiff and his smile self-conscious, but there was no mistaking his gentle good humor.
Ella smiled back at Henry Mooney.
She knew he had been to Belfast during that long spell last year when he was traveling around the country and she never saw him. One of his articles in the Bulletin had described the Marching Season as observed firsthand; even hinted that he had been shot during a riot. Yet all he ever told her was that he was “indisposed.” There were many things Henry never talked about.
Such a gulf between them. Background, religion, class.
A frown etched Ella’s forehead.
Class. The arbitrary division labeling this person one thing and that person another. Who made such decisions? Who had the right?
Wallace Congreve was of her class; a man who would ensure that her life continued in familiar patterns. He was older, but she was no longer a young girl herself. She could hardly expect a romantic prince to sweep her off her feet. Their mutual friends expected they would marry when she was ready to take off the ring another man had given her.
Wallace took it for granted.
Ella studied the face in the photograph. Henry Mooney took nothing for granted. He had not even noticed the mistletoe.
Wallace Congreve had. Kissing her wetly, sliding his hand down from her waist to her buttocks. Trusting the impeccable manners that had been drummed into her since childhood to prevent her making a scene in front of their friends. The next time it happened he would open his mouth wider and attack her tongue with his. He would grope her more intimately, perhaps even give her a pinch to demonstrate his dominance. She knew the steps as well as she knew the steps she had learned in dancing class.
ON the third of January an IRA officer died of influenza in Galway. A prisoner at Earl’s Island, he had been visited by a reporter who described his condition as so critical that prison authorities finally agreed to send him to hospital. He expired before he could be given a bed.
General Macready responded by issuing a new order: “No pressman is to visit Irish prison camps.”
Henry reported, “The magnificent eighteenth-century mansion of Mount-shannon, in County Limerick, which was the home of the former lord chancellor of Ireland, John Fitzgibbon, the earl of Clare, has been burned by members of the Irish Republican Army. It is a loss to the architectural heritage of the nation.”
The counties of Wexford, Waterford, Kilkenny, and Clare were put under martial law. The whole of southern Ireland was now at the mercy of military governance. On the first of February a man of known Republican sympathies was arrested and charged with being in possession of a revolver. His brother also was arrested for failing to inform against him. When the owner of the revolver was executed without trial, Dublin Castle reported in its Weekly Summary, POTENTIAL MURDERER SHOT.
ON the cold, damp evening of January twentieth Henry Mooney was passing Devlin’s Pub on Rutland Square—commonly called Parnell Square by the city’s Irish population—when he recognized a familiar black bicycle leaning against the wall of the building. Michael Collins laughingly referred to Devlin’s as “my unofficial office” and often slept in a room at the back.
Suddenly Henry felt the need of a hot whiskey.
He found Collins in his room, with a face like thunder. “Look at this letter I just received, Henry. From de Valera.”
Not Dev. Not the Chief. De Valera; spoken through tight lips.
The long letter was typewritten, no doubt by de Valera’s secretary, Kathleen O’Connell. It suggested that Collins go to America so the Republic “would not have all our eggs in one basket” in case of a coup on the part of the British.2
As Henry read, Collins gave a bitter synopsis. “De Valera wants me to make a report to the minister for defense on the possibilities of sending munitions from the U.S. And also execute any commissions the minister requests. In other words he wants me out of his hair, and to add to the insult, I’m to be taking orders from Cathal Brugha. That way de Valera can take over the military as well as the Dáil. Well, I’ll tell you something, Henry. I won’t do it. The Long Whoor won’t get rid of me as easily as that!”
THE twenty-first was a Friday. Ella had agreed to a late lunch with Wallace Congreve after visiting a friend in the Rotunda Maternity Hospital. Bad weather had kept her housebound for days, and she was eager for an outing. Besides, in the very proper dining room of the Kildare Street Club Wallace would have to behave himself.
Steps of the dance.
She telephoned for a motorcab to carry her across the river to the Rotunda, then back to the club on Stephen’s Green. The vehicle arrived late. “There’s trouble in the streets, Missus,” the driver explained to Ella. “I’m not sure you’d want to be going out.”
“I’m not sure I want to be staying in,” she retorted, burrowing her hands into her fox muff for warmth.
A chill wind sliced across the city. As they neared O’Connell Bridge they met a contingent of soldiers setting up traffic barricades. A British officer in full battle dress thrust his head into the cab, gave Ella a polite salute when he saw she was a lady, then told the driver, “You can’t go this way—we’re not letting anyone through for a while.”
“What’s the problem, Captain?” Ella inquired.
“Tanks, Miss.”
“What sort of tanks? Water tanks, you mean?”
“No, Miss, army tanks. They’re taking up positions now in the docks and the market areas. We’re holding back the traffic until they’re in place.”
“This is outrageous. I have a friend in the Rotunda Hospital with a new baby; how am I supposed to visit her?”
“You can drive down as far as Islandbridge; they’ll let you through there. You might not be able to get back, though. There are some reports of snipers, and we may have to close off a number of streets until we’ve flushed them out.”
“What sort of snipers?”
“Rebel scum, Miss. But we’ll get rid of them for you.”
Ella clenched her fists in her muff. “Turn around and take me home,” she ordered the cab driver. “Then I would appreciate your carrying a message to Major Wallace Congreve at the Kildare Street Club.” She handed the driver one of her calling cards. “Tell him I’m not in the mood for luncheon today.”
ON the fourth of February Sir James Craig succeeded Sir Edward Carson as leader of the Ulster Unionist Party. Carson was now MP for the Belfast constituency of Duncairn, joining the Tories at Westminster.
Fifteen members of the Cork Brigade were betrayed by an informer as they gathered in a cottage at Clonmult. A mixed force of soldiers and Auxiliaries surrounded the cottage and set the thatch roof ablaze. The officer in charge ordered the Republicans to come out with their hands up. When they obeyed, the Auxiliaries opened fire without warning and shot nine dead. Five more were wounded before the army officers could stop the slaughter.
The six IRA men who survived Clonmult were executed on a winter’s morning when sea mist mingled with the smoke of coal and turf fires in the skies over Cork City. Outside the barracks wall, Tomás MacCurtáin’s widow led the wives and mothers of the condemned men in prayer. They were close enough to hear the rifle fire, volley after volley, with fifteen-minute intervals in between to make the anxiety of waiting more agonizing.
That afternoon six British soldiers were shot dead in Cork City in reprisal. Some of them were barely old enough to shave.
Twenty thousand householders in Cork City were ordered by the British military to post a list of the occ
upants of their houses on the door, giving the age, sex, and occupation of each person.
DESMOND FitzGerald was arrested at his home on the eleventh of February. He was taken to Dublin Castle, whose reputation for the treatment of prisoners was appalling. His wife immediately appealed to personal friends who worked for the United Press and the Manchester Guardian. They contacted the publicity man at Dublin Castle and made clear to him what sort of publicity would result from any damage to FitzGerald.3
Within a few days Desmond FitzGerald was transferred to Kilmainham and given a cell in the new section.
The Bulletin announced, “Mr. Erskine Childers, although not a member of Dáil Éireann, has been appointed to take the place of Mr. Desmond FitzGerald as director of publicity.”
HENRY Mooney was invited to dine in Herbert Place. Finding himself the only guest for once, he took the opportunity to introduce the subject of politics. He began by applauding the work of the Sinn Féin courts.
Edwin disagreed. “They have no business usurping the powers of the official government.”
“That government was failing in its responsibility to govern fairly,” said Henry. “Besides, the Dáil is the democratically elected government of Ireland now.”
“We don’t live in a democracy, we live in a monarchy,” Ava chimed in.
“With a representational parliament and an electoral system,” Henry reminded her. “Being subject to Britain is not the will of the majority of the Irish people. We voted for an independent republic in—”
“Overturning the rule of law is a crime,” Edwin insisted.
“Yet that is exactly what mankind has done since civilization began, brother mine,” Ella remarked. “There would have been no social progress otherwise. Didn’t the Magna Carta overturn an unjust rule of law?”
“Throw out all laws and lawyers too, then!” Madge cried, waving her hands dramatically. “Leave everything up to the people in the street!”
“Then you would have mob rule,” warned Henry.
Edwin said, “But isn’t that what you’re advocating? Henry, why are you not content to live beneath the Union Jack? Is flying an Irish tricolor worth the loss of a single life?”
“That’s easy for you to say when you’ve always enjoyed the privileges of the ruling class. You don’t know what it is to be beaten and oppressed, to have your land taken from you and your religion discriminated against, to see your children forced to emigrate or starve.”
“But things have changed. We live in enlightened times.”
“Maybe you do, Edwin, but the majority of the people of Ireland are still as oppressed as ever, socially and economically if not physically.”
“I simply cannot accept that. Our government has given them every opportunity to better themselves.”
“To make better unskilled laborers and cannon fodder for the empire,” Henry retorted.
Voices were raised and positions defended with passion. After allowing it to go on for some time, Ella cleared her throat and spread her smile around the table like butter on a hot scone. “That was lovely. You’ve spiced up our evening, Henry; we do so enjoy a spirited debate.” On cue, the subject was changed.
“Any disagreement in my family always turned into a full-blown row,” Henry said to Ella later. “Nothing was ever forgiven, much less forgotten.”
He regretted this personal admission—until she took his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “We’re civilized people. You can fight with us and we’ll still love you in the morning.”
ON the fourteenth of March six Republicans were hanged at Mountjoy Prison, the largest number ever executed there in a single day. The other prisoners heard them calling a cheery goodbye as they were led out.
The lord mayor of Limerick, Michael O’Callaghan, plus the former lord mayor and another of the town’s leading citizens were shot dead in their homes in a single night. The lord mayor’s wife was severely wounded. Though she identified the gunmen as Black and Tans, only a military inquiry was held. No charges were filed.
Dublin itself was not yet under martial law, but a state of war existed between Michael Collins and Dublin Castle. He was being hunted as no man had been hunted in the history of Ireland. Sinn Féin was described by the Castle as crime incarnate and the returned Eamon de Valera as belonging to a race of treacherous murderers.
The redoubled efforts on the part of the Castle’s propaganda machine meant more work for the Irish Bulletin. Henry’s war-correspondent trips were brief. Invariably his presence was required back in the capital the next day, either for the Bulletin or to complete some of the other freelance writing by which he was supporting himself. He managed to find time to spend with Ella Rutledge, but had yet to visit County Clare.
Ned wrote to say that Sarsfield Maguire was hoping for some articles from Henry. As for himself, Ned commented, “All I do is arrange phone calls and send telegrams. I might as well go back to work on my novel.”
Henry told Louise, “At least he isn’t surrounded by reminders of Síle. Being back home with his own people is bound to help distract him from his grief.”
“Do you never want to go back home, Henry?”
He shrugged. “I’m not sure where home is.”
IN hopes of capturing wounded Republicans, Dublin Castle issued orders for any Irish person suffering from “suspect injuries” to be turned over to the authorities at once. When hospital staff refused to comply, the raids began. Patients were seized without explanation or apology. A fourteen-year-old boy who had been injured while blowing up stumps on his father’s farm was forcefully dragged away from his mother and the doctor and died in the military hospital.
The Tans and the Auxiliaries made the hunting of Republicans a sport.
The IRA continued to strike back. Infected by the upward spiral of violence, they became more violent themselves. Their officers tried hard to maintain the high standards of decency that had hallmarked the Irish Republican Army since 1916, but it was not always possible.
Brutal deeds were reported on both sides.
Responding to a formal protest of his Irish policy on the part of English ecclesiastics, Lloyd George said, “So long as Sinn Féin demands a republic, the present evils must go on. So long as the leaders of Sinn Féin stand in this position, and receive the support of their countrymen, settlement is in my judgment impossible.”4
IN response to a whispered summons delivered by a man in a dark overcoat, on the eighteenth of April Henry strolled the short distance from number 16 to Moran’s Hotel at number 71, Lower Gardiner Street. The hotel was a favorite Republican gathering place. He found Collins sitting by himself in a private room, drinking whiskey. It was obvious he had drunk quite a lot already. He did not even glance up when Henry entered.
“I have a story for you. Write it down just as I dictate it, will you? See if one of the more sympathetic British papers will buy it from you. Tell them it’s typical of what’s happening in Ireland today.”
Henry pulled up a chair and got out his notebook. “Go ahead.”
Collins stared into his glass as he dictated. Slowly. Careful not to slur his words. “Two days ago His Majesty’s security forces attacked a farmhouse in County Cork. The house was occupied by eight young children, their maiden aunt, and a housekeeper. The children’s father was away, attending a meeting of Cork County Council. The family had recently been left motherless. The mother had been seriously ill for months, and the stress of repeated raids in the neighborhood had contributed in a large measure to her death. You getting all this, Henry?”
“I am. Go ahead.”
“Ignoring the pleas of the women, the soldiers threw everyone out in the cold. They piled up hay and straw against the house and farm buildings and set them afire. They even stripped the harness from a team plowing a nearby field and threw that into the flames. The Collins family home and everything in it was burned to the ground. Furniture, clothes, toys even. Things lovingly accumulated over generations, all gone.” Collins raised
his eyes. “They knew where they could hurt me most.”
“Mick, I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry for me.” The lips that women loved to kiss curled into cruelty. “Be sorry for those shitty bastards if I ever get my hands on them.”
REPORTERS were flocking to Ireland. A tiny fledgling republic struggling against the might of an immense empire made for dramatic headlines. Foreign journalists were eager to interview Irish men and women who were fighting for freedom. Dublin Castle made every effort to prevent their stories being told, including having press passes revoked.
“Right now we’re an eight-day wonder,” Henry said to Matt Nugent in the Oval Bar, “but once the shouting’s over and everyone goes home, the British propaganda machine will go grinding on, presenting us to the world as consummate villains.”
“We aren’t the only ones to suffer their tender mercies,” Nugent replied. “Did you know there was serious rioting when the Indian parliament opened in January? Some fellow called Mohandas Gandhi is the head of the Indian National Congress, and has sworn not to co-operate with the British authorities. He describes them as ‘this satanic government.’ ”
Henry chuckled. “A man of taste and perspicacity. What else do you know about him?”
“It’s your shout,” Nugent reminded his friend. When fresh drinks arrived he went on. “Like Arthur Griffith, Gandhi advocates nonviolence, but the British Empire reacted to his call for independence just as they did to ours—repression, beatings, imprisonment. The Amritsar Massacre. Now frustrated mobs are attacking road convoys and burning English property, and the British press is calling the ‘ungrateful’ Indians names unfit to print.”
“It must be difficult for the imperialists,” mused Henry, “to watch their colonial holdings trying to shake themselves free. They’re baffled that we even want to. It’s easy to underrate independence if you’ve always had it, I suppose. Only another colony that’s had to fight for its freedom can understand how we feel.”
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