“Please do,” says Sarita. “Butterscotch would be nice.” Her stomach is unsettled. Why is she here? She doesn’t want to watch some brute attacking her son. And these sporting terms: terrible. Right to the kidneys. Left hook. Apparently it was safer before they started using gloves because the bones of the hand are more delicate than those of the head and boys had to soften their blows. All this random knowledge she’s picked up. She’d thought punch-drunk was what happened to people drinking cocktails made with cheap gin and now she knows the term refers to brain damage sustained in matches just like this.
Herbie comes running up the steps, two at a time, and takes his seat. He’s got a bag of sweets in his hand, and some tucked into his cheek. Herbie has never seen a chipmunk, so she won’t say he looks like one, because he’ll just make fun of her for being a foreigner.
“I did ask for butterscotch, but they didn’t have any, so it’s just bull’s-eyes.” Herbie offers the bag and she takes one, which is suspiciously sticky. “It’s about to start. Look, there’s Charlie.”
And there he is in an undershirt and some shorts with a fancy sash around his waist. She breathes through her nose. Charlie’s shoulders are bigger than the other boy’s and he has that angry look, but she knows it just means he’s concentrating. There are a number of grown men milling in the ring, coaches, umpires, whatever aging masculinity exults in youth-on-youth destruction. Perhaps they’re going over the rules. But for the umpire, the men retreat from the ring, leaving Charlie and the other boy eyeing each other, fists raised. Then a bell rings. Sarita watches the boys circle, but when the first fist flies out—was it Charlie?—she looks to her lap. “Is he all right?”
“Why don’t you watch?” She can hear Herbie breaking the sweets to bits with his teeth. “Good lord!” says Herbie. There’s an audible smacking noise and hearty cheers. She hears her father, “That’s my boy!” from the front.
“What’s happening?” There’s the squeaking of the shoes and that strange chorus of “heps” and “ohs” that come from the spectators. She hears a girl’s voice, “Come on, Charlie,” and is tempted to look, to see if it’s the girl who works at the teashop, or a real contender for Charlie’s affection. She takes a quick peek and is too late. In the ring Charlie dodges a punch, not looking terribly concerned, but then the other boy lands something—that must be one of those kidney hits—and she returns to looking at the forget-me-not print of her skirt. And then it’s just thud and thud, and that shoe-squeaking, and she wants it be over.
“Eton, Eton, Eton,” Herbie yells, but no one joins in. And then there’s a heavy smack and a loud whump—someone’s hit the floor—followed by cheering.
“Unbelievable!” shouts Herbie. He’s laughing and standing up, applauding.
“What happened?” says Sarita.
“Charlie knocked him out. That Charterhouse boy didn’t stand a chance.”
“Oh!” says Sarita, and she gets up, also clapping. The other boy is toddling in a tiny circle, roused now, shaking it off. Charlie, composed, is surveying the stands, maybe looking for his next victim. Sarita gives a little bird-wing wave and he sees her. No smile, but that’s Charlie, as if he’s pummeled the other boy because she asked him to. “So he won.”
“And now he advances,” says Herbie.
“He advances?” She sighs.
Herbie laughs at her. “Did you want him to lose?”
Sarita reaches for the bag of sweets. “Not if it ruined his nose.”
The boy from Bedford also doesn’t see the second round, although Charlie, tiring, allows the next contender—at this point in the proceedings a wide-eyed, nervous thing—into the third round, but not the fourth. Having run out of boys to box, Charlie is a champion. And this is important for a number of reasons that Sarita finds unimportant, including Eton’s having boycotted the event for the last several years. Who could care? Sarita is waiting for the crowd to thin a bit before she congratulates her boy, but there’s Father shaking hands alongside Charlie. Why does he think he deserves to do that? And there’s Herbie hopping and jumping around, boxing Charlie’s arm, although Charlie doesn’t seem to notice. Charlie’s arm is roughly the circumference of Herbie’s leg. And finally he sees her.
“Mother!” he says, and the crowd magically parts to let her through. “What did you think?”
“That was possibly the worst hour and a half of my life,” she responds.
“But I won!” he says.
“You are a champion, but you are not a mother”—she leans in to whisper in his ear—“and hopefully not yet a father.”
To which he laughs, a booming laugh, indulgent, and she realizes that Charlie has become enough of a man to treat his mother with gentle, affectionate patience.
II
London
May 1914
The Ulster Volunteer Force with Ulster money has gone to Germany and purchased 25,000 top-of-the-line rifles, arming themselves. And their enemy? The English who say they aren’t English and the Irish who claim them as kin.
This is the response in the North to the prospect of Home Rule. Soon, the Irish State could be a reality and the response of Ulster is to organize, arm, bristle.
Despite the rifles, there have been no shots fired. Apparently, English troops in the North are also on the fence as to whether or not Ulstermen are Englishmen and haven’t shot anyone. The standing English troops in the North have rebelled with their refusal to violence, but it is a rebellion without consequence. Casement has a feeling that the rest of Ireland will not be so lucky.
In the South, the Irish Volunteers need rifles.
Purchasing guns in Germany seems a reasonable way to proceed and, as no other option has presented itself, that’s what they’re trying to do. At any rate, when the time comes, English troops cannot be relied upon to enforce Home Rule.
He has spent the afternoon listening to all sorts of palaver—understandable—as all of them, Figgis, Childers, Alice, Mary Spring Rice, have been trying to figure out what this plan means, if it’s feasible. How will Redmond feel about this overture to Germany, considering that England is on the brink of war and Home Rule still on the table? How does anyone feel? How can Casement reconcile his life of seeking peaceful means with organizing the purchase of weapons?
In January Casement had been in Galway with Thomas O’Malley, professor at the university and staunch Sinn Féiner. O’Malley had been approached by a German journalist, who was writing an article on the poverty in Connemara. Casement had done a good job of raising funds for the region, had organized a system of school lunches for the children, which was good for two reasons; firstly, it brought young minds into schools where Irish—and the Irish perspective—was taught, and secondly, it fed them as they were all the children of hard-hit farmers or people who had once been farmers and were now destitute without the palliative activity of labor. It was arranged that O’Malley would drive the German journalist and Casement out to Connemara to tour the schools.
Casement was known to the journalist, an Oskar Schweringer, who had read his articles in the Irish Times and Irish Independent from when he’d been lobbying to bring the Hamburg-Amerika line to Queenstown, or Cobh. This was after Cunard had discontinued service to Ireland and Casement had reasoned that it was impossible for Ireland to have an economic presence if ships were not docking in her harbors. He’d argued well, yet futilely, as the British easily blocked the move.
From talking to Schweringer, you’d think that the Germans were as incensed as the Irish by this transparent action driven by what could only be English greed. Schweringer’s outrage was suspicious, as was his supposed interest in kelp farming, something that he said had sparked his devotion to Connemara. But whether or not Schweringer was sincere—a Hibernophiliac kelp enthusiast versus a German spy—he was indisputably a journalist committed, for whatever reason, to publicizing the desperate need of Connemara. He li
stened attentively to all of Casement’s arguments, which, as of late, had been feeling worn, but with this Schweringer, attentive as a terrier at a badger hole, sounded distilled to flawless truth. Maybe Schweringer was a German agent, but that at least meant that the Germans had an interest in Ireland and one that involved getting the English out.
It was clear that Schweringer knew to voice a hatred of the English but also clear that he had no idea what an Irishman felt in this regard. And that was another worn proclamation, one that Casement had not bothered to share. How could this German man, never enslaved by another nation, understand the subtle, dehumanizing way a conqueror justified his actions? Casement had been born into this anger, had watched his older brothers beaten on the streets of London. He had sat through dinners listening to Englishmen joke about their “Irishness” as a romantic, poetic, irrational thing—what made men sing when drunk. He’d bitten his tongue, not pointing out that a romantic, poetic, singing thing—in essence, the soul—was all one had left after being robbed, enslaved, and forced by starvation to abandon one’s country. Also, that this “irrational” and therefore savage Irish ethos was used to shore up the sense of English civility and reason, which is what allowed the English to unleash their criminal abuse across the globe and persuade themselves that all their victims were somehow raised up in the process. And why had such an eloquent man stayed silent, given that? Because defending one’s self in such a context was emasculating, and as an entire nation of men had been so humiliated, all one had left was forbearance and dignity. Although dignity—this silence—was not seen as Irish.
Driving around the west of Ireland, Schweringer—who had done his reading for this mission—had gone on about the Penal Laws. On seeing a donkey—picturesque with its baskets of peat and emaciated child—he had remembered, with comic outrage, that the Irish had been disallowed from owning an animal worth more than five pounds, this to keep horses that could be used for military purposes out of Irish hands.
“That’s where you’re wrong. The English wanted us all on donkeys so that we’d look silly,” O’Malley had interjected. “Also, so that they could look down on us.” O’Malley, committed as he was to the Connemara project, had begun responding to Schweringer in this manner as his suspicions of Schweringer had crystallized into outright certainty that he was escorting a German spy through the peat bogs of Connemara, which was ridiculous. But what could one do?
After they deposited Schweringer back at his Galway hotel, O’Malley and Casement had strolled up the canal for a drink. O’Malley had said, “I don’t really trust the Germans.”
And Casement had said, “They’re the only ones who can beat the English.” And then he’d added something about German industry, discussed the possibility of Belfast wealth expanding southward, but all the while he’d felt of two minds. On the one hand, he was a humanitarian, and entertaining an alliance with Germany was in opposition to his instinct to peace. On the other, the Germans wanted Ireland on their side, and the Irish might actually be in league with the winners.
As it currently stands, they are not entering into any agreement with Germany, although some sort of Entente Cordiale might be wise. If Germany has her war and wins, which seems a distinct possibility, it would be desirable to have an understanding in place for Irish Independence.
All the others have left and now it is just Alice and Casement. Alice insists on the dining room despite the discomfort of the chairs, although perhaps this might be why she likes it, perhaps enacting a disdain for comfort as a way of performing her gender-defying strength. But Casement’s old problem, the piles, is aggravated and he has to keep getting up.
They are trying to break down the glorious gunrunning plan into a series of small, effective actions. As it stands, Darrell Figgis is to purchase the weapons in Hamburg. Erskine Childers and his wife, Molly, will then transport the guns to Howth on their yacht Asgard, with Mary Spring Rice along for the ride. Erskine Childers is a writer, famous for The Riddle of the Sands, a veteran of the Boer War. His wife, Molly, an American, although crippled, is good with a boat. And Mary Spring Rice? You do need someone to help load rifles. Women might draw less suspicion to the cargo, although perhaps more by their presence as yachtsmen in the North Sea. As he thinks it through, the venture seems either doomed or bound for glory. Or both, as is the case with so much of Irish history. This plan might not be the best to ensure Home Rule, but currently it is the only plan, and as such he should support it. Although his mind still darts here and there, hoping to create one less bizarre.
The official meeting adjourned at half six. Darrell Figgis had finally left at eight, when it was clear that Alice was not going to offer dinner or pass around the whiskey. Figgis, from the Figgis tea merchants, has done himself up as a Bohemian, writing poetry, growing a scant but lengthy red beard, and swanning around in shabby clothes. He’s running the business end of things and one would assume that he should be present as the planning proceeds. But Alice can’t think around him. Figgis is sharp but changes topics constantly and can’t bear silence. He is brave and organized, willing to risk the trip to Germany, and maybe that should have been enough to let him stay on.
Casement and Alice sit together at one corner of the table. There’s a cold joint of lamb with some of last night’s mint jelly and savory pudding, just in case they feel like eating. He has little appetite and Alice is preoccupied. He watches her unspool all kinds of scribble across the page, darting to the margins to pencil in occasional notes. She consults her work, scratching her head with the pencil tip. “If I give 750 pounds, do you think you can double it?”
Alice is counting on the donors who supported the Congo campaign; although, illiterate, starving children in Connemara are somehow a harder sell than Congo rubber workers. “Well, I do know who to ask. Maybe. Maybe I can do it.”
“In two weeks?”
“In two weeks, or not at all,” says Casement. “Alice, are you proposing we run a revolution on 1,500 pounds?”
“Revolution? No. That’s just a rough estimate of cost based on how many rifles Esrkine’s guessing we can fit in the Asgard’s hold.”
“You’re budgeting a pound a rifle?” asks Casement.
“Something like that,” says Alice.
“Don’t forget the ammunition,” Casement adds. “So less than a pound per rifle. Any rifle at that price will be, at best, a relic of the Boer War.”
“Are you having second thoughts?”
“Second thoughts. And third thoughts,” says Casement. “But not enough to back off.”
If they land the guns—regardless of quality—it will bring much-needed credibility to the Irish Volunteers. The Ulster Volunteers are no doubt drilling in the hills of Antrim. And what are their brothers to the south doing? Running at scarecrows, impaling them with broomsticks.
“Who’s our man on the Supreme Council?” asks Alice. They’re going to need a high-level Irish Republican Brotherhood person to approve this.
“Most likely Bulmer Hobson,” says Casement. “If it creates belief in an Irish Republic, Hobson will be for it.” Hobson will hope that having armed Irish Volunteers can possibly cancel out armed Ulster Volunteers: Try to make it so that no shots are fired at all. But at some point even Hobson will have to accept that with this many guns, some are bound to go off.
Alice creates a column of figures and taps at the edges of the paper.
Casement strips a bit of the lamb off the joint, drags it through the jelly and into his mouth. That one bite activates his hunger. He puts some food on his plate, even the savory pudding, which tastes of salty lard.
“Roddie, we need real money,” says Alice, “and for that, we need America. So this is something that needs to be planned. I’ll book passage as soon as can be managed.”
“That makes sense,” says Casement. “How long will you be in America?”
“Me? We’re not sending a woman to th
e United States.” She screws up her face. “We’ll send Sir Roger Casement. He’s a knight and Americans love that.” She delivers that conspirator’s smile that makes so much more sense now that they’re actually conspiring. “We’ll send you to New York and you can go shake some hands, empty some pockets.”
“And then what?” asks Casement.
“And then we go back to Germany and buy more weapons.”
Casement spends this long night winding himself in his sheets, first a swaddled baby, then a dead man. The drop into stupor finally succeeds, the membrane dividing wakefulness from coma is breached, the black clouds of sleep work their gentle suffocation . . . now.
No more! He coughs inward and his lids fly up. At first he does not recognize the room. His heart drubs against his ribs as a cold wash of adrenaline spreads to the tips of his fingers, the backs of his knees. Sleep is over. He wonders what has woken him this time. The wind is rattling the pane but bad weather is most often soothing for him. Perhaps a bad dream. He closes his eyes to find it, and sees Millar, feels a second surge of panic. Get up. Get up. Find a drink. Use the water closet. The term would be drifted apart—he and Millar have drifted apart. But that’s not accurate. They were both neck deep in whatever they shared, swimming along, and Millar has outpaced him by several lengths and is widening the distance. They are friends. The room is cold. Casement sits up and swings his legs off the bed. He groans just to hear some human sound in the darkness. He feels for the slippers on the floor and his feet find them, the slippers belonging to Alice’s historian husband. How long has he been dead? Why keep the slippers? Does she keep them for him? He puts them on—a perfect fit—and thinks, I am wearing the slippers of a dead man.
In the hallway, he can hear Alice’s robust snoring. There’s a rough drag outward, the smart inhalation, the three epiglottal hacks to finish the intake of breath. And then she goes again. He’s stayed in this house a dozen times at least but still gets turned around at night, although he does not miss chamber pots—always thought walking out of a shimbek to stand in the honest air preferable, the sound of one’s urine spattering onto the ground somehow more satisfying than trying to contain oneself into a bowl that was then slid under one’s bed to be left percolating until the following morning. He pauses at the end of the hallway. There will be a door to the left, but right now moonlight is pouring through the window of the second guest room and through the open door he sees the brightness. The somber beauty of this draws him and as he moves to the window, he is momentarily stopped by what he thinks is a blanket folded and left upon the floorboards. He toes it carefully, but it is just a square marked off by the gentle lunar light and he would like to lift it, to somehow unfold it, to wrap himself in this pale, cold shroud. Why not go to America? Why not pack his bags again?
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