“I actually know Mr. MacDonagh, Henry. He used to teach Irish and literature at Saint Enda’s, and he still comes back to visit.”
“How would you describe him?”
“He’s a friendly, amiable little man. I’ve heard that he can be a severe critic but he’s passionate about the things he believes in, like the Gaelic League and good literature. Occasionally he seems sad, but mostly he’s cheerful and even”—Ned rummaged through his new vocabulary—“ebullient. That’s it, ebullient. Everyone likes him. As we say at home, ‘You wouldn’t feel a long day passing in his company.’
“Mr. MacDonagh helped Mr. Pearse found the school but he won’t take any credit for it. They say he once burned a lot of his poetry on a bonfire at the school because he felt it wasn’t good enough.”12
Henry said, “That’s a pity. We Irish are too quick to be self-effacing. Poetry is the soul standing naked, an act of courage if ever there was one. We can’t afford to feed good examples to bonfires.”
Tucking the little book into his waistcoat pocket, the journalist continued his commentary. “Sackville Street’s the finest boulevard in Europe, in my humble opinion. Consider its incredible width. The old Romans could hold their chariot races here. And look at those elaborate lampposts! Dublin’s called the Second Capital of the British Empire, you know. They’ve spent a lot of money on giving it an impressive public face.
“But there’s more to Dublin than neoclassical architecture. Let’s walk down to the O’Connell Bridge; I want you to see the Dublin Bread Company. It’s crowned with a tower that looks for all the world like a huge bread hamper. Then just across the bridge on Burgh Quay is the Carlisle Building,13 containing the editorial and commercial offices of the Irish Independent. Originally the paper was housed in Middle Abbey Street, along with the Evening Herald and the Sunday Independent. But things got too crowded for the staff of all three papers, so now some of us are across the bridge. I’d like to show you where I work, and the south side of the city, but we’ll save that tour for another day. When you’ve seen the best of the north side we’ll go to the Pillar Café and I’ll shout you to a cup of tea.”
Henry Mooney had been in Dublin long enough to think of it as “his” city, and took pleasure in showing off the place. But he had another reason for encouraging Ned’s friendship. The boy was obviously someone to whom things happened. The Titanic, and his choice of schools, proved that.
Since coming to Dublin Henry Mooney had learned quite a bit about the headmaster of Saint Enda’s. As they walked down Sackville Street he cast a sidelong glance at his companion and wondered just how much Ned knew about the other, increasingly perilous enterprises of Patrick Henry Pearse.
The overcast afternoon had grown very hot and still.
There was a powderkeg feeling in the air.
Chapter Twelve
SEVERAL hundred people had gathered in front of the Imperial Hotel. Henry stopped with a frown and took out his pocket watch. “It’s noon,” he muttered. “But surely not…He wouldn’t dare…”
A bearded old man in a wheelchair was trundled through the crowd and into the hotel.1 Henry caught Ned’s arm. “Look there! He can’t fool me; that’s Jim Larkin.”
“Who’s Jim Larkin?”
“The founder of the Transport Workers’ Union. The labor movement’s turned ugly because the employers are fighting back. There’s been no end of trouble here this summer, with angry confrontations and brutal policing. Larkin’s been giving strong speeches at Liberty Hall in Beresford Place all week. He was arrested once, but they let him out on bail—if he’d behave himself. He promptly announced a big rally in Sackville Street for today. It was officially banned, of course, but it looks like that won’t stop Big Jim. And at Murphy’s own hotel, too. What a brass neck! Come on, let’s get closer.” Tugging the boy after him, he waded into the press of bodies.
A few minutes later the man from the wheelchair appeared standing in a balcony window above the street. The outsized Crombie coat he wore failed to conceal his impressive height. As he pulled off his false beard a woman at the front of the crowd shouted, “Three cheers for Jim Larkin!”
Larkin thrust the beard into his pocket and raised his arms to call for silence. He had said only a few words when several policemen grabbed him from behind. A scuffle followed. Simultaneously more police swarmed into the street below, wielding batons to drive back the crowd.
Shouts of support for Larkin gave way to cries of alarm as a large company of mounted policemen came thundering up the boulevard. They were armed with more than batons.
A saber flashed in the air.
Some in the crowd were trying to fight back while others were running away. It never occurred to Ned to run. Had he not survived the Titanic?
Seeing a policeman lean from his saddle to slash at an elderly man, he threw himself forward and caught the booted foot in the stirrup. “Leave him alone!” he shouted. “He’s doing you no harm!”
The policeman turned on Ned. Beneath his helmet his features were contorted with unmistakable glee.
In a moment of dreadful clarity Ned felt the shadow of the saber on his own face. Then its darkness expanded to blot out the sky.
THE ocean was roaring in his ears. His head hurt terribly. In fact, he hurt all over. But he would not allow himself to give in to the pain and sink down into the roaring ocean. He had survived the Titanic; the sea could not claim him now….
He could feel horsehair upholstery prickling through the back of his shirt. With an effort, Ned opened his eyes.
A blurry figure leaning over him gradually came into focus. “He’s coming around now,” Henry said.
A second person moved into Ned’s field of vision. “Here’s more brown paper and vinegar,” said a feminine voice. An acrid smell stung Ned’s nostrils and he felt hands fumbling at his head, then something cool was spread across his forehead and the ocean closed over him again.
When he awoke a second time his head still hurt but his vision was clear. He gingerly turned his head and looked around.
He lay on a black horsehair couch in the front parlor of Number 16 Middle Gardiner Street. There was no sign of Henry, but a young woman sat in a rocking chair by the nearest window, resting her chin on one hand and gazing out at the street.
He coughed politely to get her attention. Pain lanced through his head.
She got up at once and came over to him. “So you’re awake. That’s a good sign.” In spite of the ugly bruise on the side of his face he was a nice-looking boy, Mary Cosgrave thought to herself. A very nice-looking boy. The cleft in his chin was intriguing, and now that his eyes were open, their thick-lashed green gaze made her breath catch in her throat. “How are you feeling?”
He could not see her face. She was only a silhouette against the light from the window. “I…sore. What happened?”
“You were hit on the head with the flat of a saber for trying to save my father,” she replied angrily. “And then some of them beat you with batons as you lay on the ground.”
When she bent closer he could make out her features: a perfect oval face framed by clusters of glossy brown curls. She wore a white muslin shirtwaist with a yoke of frothy lace. To Ned’s dazed mind she looked like an angel.
“How is your f-father?” he managed to stammer.
“He’ll be all right, thanks to you. I told him not to go, there was sure to be trouble, but he wouldn’t listen. After they arrested Mr. Larkin, Mr. Mooney brought you both here. Then he sent for me. My father’s resting upstairs now. He’s a bit bruised too, but there’s no real harm done; I’ve seen him come back from the pub with worse.”
Ned’s head had begun to pound with an insistent, compelling beat. He closed his eyes but did not lose consciousness, so he heard when Henry returned to the room. “How’s my young friend doing, Mary?”
“He was awake a few moments ago.”
“That’s a relief. There’s no sense taking him to hospital if we can avoid it; I wouldn’t
want it on the record that he was involved in a riot. Your father’s feeling better now, too. Whenever you like I shall fetch a cab for you, Mary, so the pair of you can go home. I imagine your mother’s very anxious.”
Ned did not realize he had fallen asleep again until he awoke to find the room gilded with gaslight. Henry was tugging at his shoulders. “Up ye get, lad, and upstairs with you. Mrs. Kearney has fixed a bed in my room for you, and I’ll take you out to the school tomorrow myself.”
“Where’s Mary?”
“Mary Cosgrave, is it? You weren’t as badly hurt as I thought,” Henry said with a chuckle.
The next morning no trams were running, so Henry hired a motor cab to take himself and Ned to Rathfarnham. For a time Ned rode in silence. His head was throbbing, his ribs were sore, one arm was badly bruised. There was no way he could get comfortable.
The cab jolted on the cobblestones.
“I owe you an apology for yesterday,” Henry said. “I never meant to get you involved in anything like that. I didn’t expect it; the rally was banned.”
“It’s all right, it wasn’t your fault.” Yet I could have been killed, Ned thought to himself as the realization slowly dawned. Me, dead. Going down into the dark sea. Strangely, the possibility seemed more real than it had on the sinking Titanic.
“Of course, most of what happens in life is unexpected, lad,” Henry went on. “That’s why we have newspapers—to report on things we never anticipated. As a result of that riot seven hundred people were sent to hospital. Most of them were just innocent passersby who got caught up in the riot. A man and a woman were killed outright and another man died this morning.
“Last night the police went berserk and broke into working-class homes all over the city, arresting men and smashing furniture while terrified women and children looked on. It’s a damned shame,” he added angrily. “They’re making a bloody police state of this city.”
Ned did not ask who “they” were. His head was throbbing.
“The DMP have no patience with unions,” Henry continued. “It’s been war between the workers and the police all summer. The hotel where Jim Larkin tried to speak is owned by William Martin Murphy. You could say he’s my boss; he owns the Independent. But he’s also a director of the Dublin Tramways Company, and Larkin called the tramway workers out on strike. Needless to say, Murphy’s no friend of the union movement. He’s leading the new Employers’ Federation against unionism.”
“Is that why you said Jim Larkin had a brass neck?”
“Exactly. Yesterday was an act of defiance and I commend his courage, but it went badly wrong. He’s been arrested just when his union needs him most.”
“Is Mr.…Cosgrave…a member of the union?”
Henry nodded. “A tram conductor. I know the family, I interviewed them for an article I wrote on the last strike. Had to handle it very carefully, as you can imagine. My sympathies are with the workers but I have to make a living.
“Cosgrave’s a decent enough man, though some might say he bends the elbow too often. He married above himself—a sickly woman who’s always ailing. But her father was a merchant who left her a good house in Dorset Street. Otherwise the family would probably be in one of the Church Street tenements.2
“The Cosgraves buried three little girls and have two grown sons working in England. Mary’s the only surviving daughter; she works at Brown Thomas as a draper’s assistant. Would you not say she’s a very pretty girl?” Henry nudged Ned with his elbow.
Ned hastily changed the subject. “I appreciate your going to Saint Enda’s with me, but should you not be at work?”
“I am at work. The riot was one story and meeting your Mr. Pearse just might provide me with another.”
When they reached the gates of Saint Enda’s, Henry gave a low whistle. “‘The Hermitage’, eh? Looks more prosperous than I expected.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve heard the school is one step ahead of bankruptcy. Pearse may be a superb educator, but he’s financially naive. He’s put everything he has into this place. Lately he’s become involved in the nationalist movement and that takes up a lot of his time and energy, too, so he’s bound to be overstretched.
“Douglas Hyde’s Gaelic League gives him philosophical support, but a place like this costs more than a few shillings to run. Still…Ho, look there, Ned.” As their cab drew up in front of the house, Henry drew Ned’s attention to a large private motorcar behind them. Henry paid the cabdriver and had a brief argument with him about waiting, while Ned watched three men and a woman get out of the motorcar and mount the steps. They knocked and were immediately admitted.
Henry concluded his arrangements with the cabdriver, then turned to Ned. “Now, that’s interesting. Did you get a good look at them? The young man in the dramatic cape was Joseph Mary Plunkett, who edits The Irish Review. His father’s Count Plunkett, the director of the Museum of Science and Art.”3
“Do you know who the woman was?”
“Indeed I do; you can’t be in the newspaper business for long without recognizing her. That’s Countess Markievicz.”
“The founder of the Fianna?”
“The very same. Thomas MacDonagh—there’s a coincidence for you, Ned—was the third of the party, as I’m sure you already noticed. And unless I’m mistaken the last one out of the car was Edmund Kent. He works in the City Treasurer’s department of Dublin Corporation.4 Rumor has it he’s also a member of the Irish Republican Brotherhood—although they may not know that in the Corpo. Now what are those four doing here together, do you suppose?”
Henry Mooney had a definite gleam in his eye.
Mrs. Pearse opened the front door just as Pearse emerged from his study. “Thanks be to God you’re back. We’ve been very worried about you!” His gaze fixed on Ned’s bandaged head. “How were you injured? Is it serious?”
Henry interjected, “This lad came into the city yesterday only to be struck down during the riot in Sackville Street. There’s no lasting damage done, but he will have a few aches and pains for a while. He’s a friend of mine, so I kept him at my place overnight to recover.”
Pearse’s eyes swung to Henry. “I am in your debt, sir. And you are…?”
“Henry Mooney, at your service. I write for the Irish Independent.”
“I have read some articles with your name on them, Mr. Mooney,” Pearse replied. “They were well written and thought provoking. Please, join me in my study. Both of you.”
Pearse’s guests rose to their feet when the newcomers entered. “These two were in Sackville Street yesterday,” the headmaster told them.
Curly-haired Thomas MacDonagh greeted Ned with a smile of recognition. “Failte isteach!” With his high forehead, long nose, and narrow jaw, MacDonagh was the very portrait of an academic. But there was nothing stuffy about him. The little man’s enthusiastic nature endeared him to everyone who knew him. Although he was now an assistant lecturer at University College Dublin, he still visited Saint Enda’s frequently and was a great favorite there.
Next, Joseph Mary Plunkett extended his hand. His fingers were laden with rings. In contrast to the others he was an exotic figure, wearing expensive clothing cut in the latest continental fashion. Behind thick-lensed spectacles his face was very pale, however, and his dark eyes were fever-bright.
Edmund Kent wore the type of nondescript gray suit favored by civil servants, but he had a luxuriant brown mustache. Well muscled for a man who worked indoors, he acknowledged Ned and Henry with a silent nod.
No sooner had Pearse introduced Constance, Countess Markievicz, than the woman exclaimed, “Those brutes! This child could have been killed.”
Suddenly Ned recognized that voice. Three cheers for Jim Larkin!
Constance Markievicz was a tall, lean woman in her middle years. Her features, though finely modeled, were sharp. Graying brown hair was twisted into a careless knot at the nape of her neck, and she wore an old cardigan long out of fashion.
Ned was staring at her bruised mouth. “You were there?”
“I most certainly was! Jim had borrowed my husband’s coat as part of his disguise. After he was arrested, some drunken policeman hit me in the face.”
“That’s worse than hitting a child,” Ned said indignantly. “I mean…I’m not a child, I’m almost seventeen.”
Her expression softened into a smile and he realized she was beautiful. “I was sixteen myself many years ago,” she told him. “It’s a grand age. I apologize for calling you a child. You are obviously a fine young man.”
With those few words she won his heart.
“I’m quite an admirer of your work,” Henry was saying to Thomas MacDonagh. He cleared his throat self-consciously and quoted:
There is no moral to my song,
I praise no right, I blame no wrong;
I tell of things that I have seen,
I show the man that I have been
As simply as a poet can
Who knows himself poet and man.5
Then he fumbled in his pocket and produced the slim volume he had purchased the previous day. “I never expected to meet you here, but since I have, would you be so kind as to sign this for me?”
MacDonagh frowned at the proffered book. “There are two in this room who are much better poets than I. You should be collecting the works of Mr. Pearse and Mr. Plunkett instead of mine.” But he took a pen from Pearse’s desk, dipped it into a bottle of ink, and bent to inscribe a few words on the flyleaf.
Henry remarked, “Ireland is producing a full complement of bards in this generation.” Then he added with deliberate casualness, “Do you also write, Mr. Kent?”
The quiet man shook his head. “Ceannt,” he corrected, subtly changing the pronunciation of his name to its Irish equivalent. “Eamonn Ceannt, please. To answer your question, my enthusiasm is music. I play the pipes. I’ve written some articles in Irish for a literary journal Pat edits,6 but you might say I am more of a physical person.”
1916 Page 10