January 1914
GREAT BRITAIN’S LLOYD GEORGE CALLS
BUILDUP OF ARMS IN EUROPE ‘ORGANIZED INSANITY’
February 1914
H.M.S. BRITANNIC, SISTER SHIP TO THE
TITANIC, LAUNCHED IN BELFAST
Chapter Fifteen
EARLY in the new year Ned announced his intention to buy a birthday present for his Aunt Norah “at the best shop in Dublin.” Kathleen in America unexpectedly had sent him a gift of money for his own birthday, and he had saved most of it for just such a purpose. Norah and Frank and the girls were very much on his mind. Although miles separated them, he wanted to do something for them, make some gesture that would show he was still connected to hearth and home.
On a cold Saturday morning he set out for Dublin’s Grafton Street, a fashionable thoroughfare lined with dressmakers, tailors, furriers, jewelers, stationers, and similar establishments interspersed with cafes such as Mitchells and the Café Cairo. Although it was early traffic was already brisk. A veritable procession of ladies of wealth and privilege were making their way up toward Saint Stephen’s Green or down toward College Green.
Ned’s destination was the large shop that advertised itself as Brown, Thomas & Co., Silk Mercers, Linen Drapers, Haberdashers and Milliners. Broad glass windows displayed smart frocks together with frothing petticoats and swaths of silk stockings, all unmistakably first-class. One look was enough to make a farm boy blush.
But Mary Cosgrave worked in Brown Thomas.
Resolutely, Ned approached the front entrance. A “commissionaire” in top hat and frock coat bestowed a professional smile on him and held the door wide.1 Out wafted the aroma of expensive fabric and costly scent.
For one moment Ned was back on the Titanic. Second-class.
No sooner had he entered the shop than he saw a floorwalker staring at him. The man’s job was to welcome regular customers and discourage undesirables. His glance took in the cut of Ned’s tweed jacket, then dropped to his shoes and expertly assessed their quality. His face closed.
As if Pádraic Pearse were speaking in his ear, Ned recalled the headmaster saying, “Since Elizabethan times the Irish have been taught to defer to English authority, no matter how unjust that authority might be. This has been drummed into us by those who believe themselves our betters in order to keep us herdbound and submissive. Thus, generations of contempt and condescension have robbed us of any sense of our own worth.
“To accept that judgment is to compound the error. Throw back your shoulders and stand tall in any company; remember that you are of the Gael, inheritors of a proud race. Do nothing but that which is noble and fine, and thus force others to recognize you as an equal.”
Lifting his chin with the Halloran cleft, Ned looked the floorwalker in the eye. His heart was pounding but his gaze was steady.
The floorwalker blinked first. Then he turned his attention elsewhere.
Ned felt a momentary elation.
An inquiry at the nearest counter sent him deeper into the realms of privilege. Brown Thomas’s clientele were elegantly dressed women whose skin glowed with health beneath the extensive electric lighting. Such diseases as the pox were simply not allowed through the doors. Mary belongs here, Ned said to himself. Protected and cherished.
Miss Cosgrave worked in Hats and Gloves, third floor. He fairly ran up the stairs to that department, only to be told by a sallow woman in steel-rimmed spectacles, “Sorry, but Miss Cosgrave isn’t here today. She sent a note saying that her mother is ill.”
How swiftly elation turned to despair! Burying his hands in his pockets, Ned slouched out of Brown Thomas and was back in Grafton Street before he remembered his aunt’s birthday. But he had no desire to face the supercilious floorwalker a second time.
Knaggs Bros., at number 27, was advertising “Irish Bog Oak Jewellery.” Ned gazed through the window at their wares, rubbed the cleft in his chin thoughtfully, walked on a few paces, then turned and went back. A female clerk helped him select a brooch made of glossy bog oak inset with silver wire and jet. “Your aunt will like this,” she assured him. “The saints themselves would like this, so they would.”
Ned tucked the paper-wrapped parcel in his jacket pocket and set out to explore the city south of the Liffey. He rummaged happily through P. S. O’Hegarty’s Bookshop in Dawson Street, circumnavigated Trinity College, admired the classical facade of the former Irish Parliament building, wandered up and down a number of narrow, intriguing laneways in Temple Bar, and at last emerged on the quays near O’Connell Bridge. Noticing the Carlisle Building, he went in.
“Mr. Mooney?” repeated the man at the Irish Independent’s reception desk. “Right through that door and turn left.”
With his shirtsleeves rolled up and a green eyeshade on his forehead, Henry Mooney was sitting hunched over a battered desk in a room filled with similarly battered desks. Half a dozen men were busily writing on sheets of foolscap, while an equal number were leaning back in their chairs and staring at the ceiling or talking casually to one another. The air smelled of ink and stale sweat and cigarette smoke.
The moment Henry saw Ned he began rolling down his sleeves. “Your timing is perfect. I was just about to go out and watch the demonstration. Care to join me if I promise you won’t be injured this time?”
Ned laughed. “I’ve forgotten all about that,” he lied, well aware that his “battle wound” had scored points on his behalf with Pádraic Pearse. “What demonstration, Henry?”
“Those new Irish Volunteers are drilling on the quays this afternoon. Could be a story in it, and we can go for a pint afterward.” Mooney was already standing up and pulling on his jacket. Ned eagerly fell into step beside him as he headed for the door.
“What brings you to Dublin today?”
Ned was too shy to mention Mary Cosgrave. “Shopping. But it’s done now.”
Perhaps because he had her on his mind, however, he found his eyes straying to the women they passed. The observant Henry remarked, “You like that one, do you? Look again. She has thick lips and I suspect, though I have no direct proof, thick ankles as well.”
Ned was both shocked and delighted. “Do they go together?”
“Not always, but often enough to be noted by a student of female anatomy.”
A company of men came marching toward them from George’s Quay. They had no uniforms; Sam Browne belts held a variety of coats in place over Sunday suits and weekday work clothes.
Ned was reminded of the Fianna drilling at Saint Enda’s. The boys in their neat uniforms were as disciplined as a real army, and trained in marksmanship.
Some of the adult Volunteers were out of step. On their shoulders they carried crudely carved dummy rifles like children playing soldiers.
No one was paying much attention to them. A few street urchins and one scruffy bull terrier trotted in their wake, but otherwise the Dubliners were indifferent. Demonstrations of marching men were all too familiar.
In the front rank was a darkly handsome man of some twenty-nine or thirty years. Although he had a pronounced limp, he moved as if to the beat of an inner drum. Henry Mooney pointed him out to Ned. “That’s John MacDermott; Seán, he calls himself. He had infantile paralysis, that’s why he drags one leg a bit. He’s rumored to be the national organizer for the Irish Republican Brotherhood; travels up and down the country on a bicycle. I must say I’m surprised to see him marching with the Volunteers. Perhaps the IRB’s trying to infiltrate this new organization.”
“What do you know about the IRB, Henry? No one talks about it very much.”
Henry was flattered to show off his knowledge. “For good reason. The Brotherhood is a secret—and secretive—society that was organized by James Stephens and John O’Mahony in the last century. Both were veterans of the failed Rising of 1848. From the beginning its purpose was conspiracy—conspiracy to bring about the establishment of an independent Irish Republic. The IRB receives considerable financial support from America; particula
rly from an Irish-American group called Clan na Gael. In America, Irish republicans are known as Fenians, after the Fianna.”
“But we have Fenians in Clare!”
“You do of course. The name is used on both sides of the Atlantic now. In fact their greatest strength used to be down the country, but with the rise of the labor movement the IRB has become much stronger in Dublin. And Seán MacDermott is one of their most dedicated members.”
As if he knew they were talking about him, MacDermott glanced in their direction. For one heartbeat his eyes met Ned’s. The challenge they held was like a shout in the blood.
Suddenly Ned longed with all his heart to be marching in the company of grown men, with the golden sunshine pouring over them like a blessing. Summer seemed far too long to wait. He squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. Inside him a drum began to beat.
A young woman carrying a string shopping bag flicked her gaze over him and then stopped on the footpath, staring. After a moment’s hesitation she came toward him and laid her hand on his arm.
Ned gave a start. Dragging his thoughts back from brief glory, he looked down to find himself gazing into a familiar face; familiar, yet somehow very changed. At first he could not even think of the name that went with the russet hair, the slanted eyes.
Then, “Sheila? Síle Duffy, is it you?”
“It is myself, did you not know me?”
“I did, but…I mean…you look so…different,” Ned finished lamely.
When he last saw her in Clare, Dan Duffy’s sister had been barefoot and dressed in rags. Two years had wrought a transformation. Her hair no longer resembled raveled rope but was smoothed tight from a center part and then twisted into corkscrew curls that tumbled fetchingly over one shoulder. Her coat was inexpensive but stylish; high-heeled boots peeped from beneath her daringly ankle-length skirt.
Ned was dazzled. “What are you doing in Dublin? I never thought…I mean, how did you…”
Still laughing, Síle linked her arm with his. He caught a momentary fragrance of white lilac.
“Och, that’s a long story, Ned. But if you’ll buy me a cup of tea at Bewley’s I’ll tell you some of it. Then I want to hear about you, which would be ever so much more interesting.”
Henry Mooney stepped squarely into their path. “I don’t think you want to do that, Ned.”
“But I know this young lady. She’s the sister of a friend of mine from Clare.”
“From Clare, is it?” Henry surveyed Síle with narrowed eyes. “Are you not a long way from home then, missus?”
“What business is it of yours?” She tightened her grip on Ned’s arm, pressing her breast against his bicep. Suddenly all his nerve endings were concentrated in his arm.
“It’s your business I’m more concerned about. This young man is a friend of mine, a good Catholic boy who has not been exposed to certain aspects of Dublin life. I should not like to see him taken advantage of.”
“I’m not taking advantage of him. I just asked him to buy me a cup of tea.”
“It’s all right, Henry,” Ned interjected. “Truly it is. I don’t know what you’re worried about.”
“She knows what I’m worried about,” said Henry, keeping his eyes locked with Síle’s. “So you want him to take you to Bewley’s. But is the north side not your territory?”
Síle glared at him. “I live on the north side, lots of people do. What difference does that make?”
“Not just the north side. Monto. You live in Mrs. Drumgold’s kip in Faithful Place, I believe, with several other young women.”
“Where I board and who with is my own concern!” Síle snapped.
As Henry had said, Ned was a good Catholic boy with all the innocence that term implied in the Ireland of 1914, but even so he was beginning to understand. No woman was going to be insulted in Ned Halloran’s presence! He did exactly what he thought Mr. Pearse would do. Placing his right hand over Sile’s, he said firmly, “We’ll go for that tea now, Síle.”
But Henry Mooney was not easily outflanked. “I’m ready for a cup myself,” he announced, falling into step beside them.
The three made their way to Bewley’s Oriental Café in Westmoreland Street. Bewley’s specialized in China teas, freshly baked cakes and scones, and an atmosphere that managed to combine the homeyness of the kitchen with the hospitality of the parlor. Although the wood-paneled interior was cozily dark, Dubliners sat for hours reading newspapers or chatting with friends as if they were in their own homes.
Henry pulled out Síle’s chair so deftly Ned had no chance to perform the courtesy, then ordered tea and sandwiches for three from the waitress and insisted on paying for them himself. Síle, with equal dexterity, took over the task of pouring the tea from the glazed pot. Ned felt like a child caught between two adults.
As if nothing unpleasant had passed between them, Henry began chatting with the young woman. When he mentioned various events and personalities of the day she was surprisingly knowledgeable. The ignorant peasant in the tumbledown cabin had been replaced by a city girl who now boasted of reading newspapers. Henry complimented her on her “informed conversation.” She smiled; he smiled back.
As he watched them Ned became aware of subtle shifts of power from one side to the other, reminding him of points being scored on a playing field. Much social intercourse, he had long since concluded, was based on a degree of hypocrisy. He did not see this realization as a loss of innocence but as an increased understanding of the world.
Staring down into his teacup, he thought longingly of Saint Enda’s and Mr. Pearse, who said only what he meant.
Chapter Sixteen
Caitlín, a chara,
Recently I met Dan Duffy’s sister in Dublin. Unfortunately, my friend Henry Mooney took an instant dislike to her. After we had tea together in Bewley’s he urged me to avoid her in future, which I thought presumptuous of him.
Ned did not report Henry’s exact words: “If you want that sort of companionship, let me take you to someone I can vouch for.”
I am old enough to choose my own company, however, and I plan to see Miss Duffy again. A country girl come up to the city must feel rather lost. I know I did when I first came here. So for her brother’s sake, God rest him, I shall be her friend.
Ned interrupted his letter writing at that point to attend class. When next he took up his pen he had exciting news to impart.
Caitlín, you may have an opportunity to meet our Mr. Pearse! Although he has long encouraged Irish nationalism through his writings and speeches, until recently he was not a member of any political organization. But as I told you before, things are changing. He has now joined the Irish Republican Brotherhood. With their help he is going on a lecture tour in America to raise funds for the school. He will be sailing on the Campania in February, and his first engagements will be in New York. There will be announcements in the papers.
If you meet him, do not be misled by first impressions. He may seem standoffish, but that is just the way he appears with strangers. He is a different man at home. Did I tell you he takes his meals in the refectory with us? He never minds how much we shout and laugh; he is like one of us then.
After classes when we gather around the fireplace he can be jolly company. Sometimes he recites a rollicking ballad called “Seamus O’Brien” with such histrionics that we fall around the place laughing. Just between us, I do not think Mr. Pearse likes adults very much; he says young people are the only ones who make him feel fully alive.
Some days later Ned was called to the headmaster’s study to find Pearse poring over a long list of items and checking off various ones with a pencil. In front of him on the desk was an unfinished article on education for the Irish Review, the draft of a speech, “To the Boys of Ireland,” and a cup of tea gone cold. Looking up as the boy entered, Pearse said, “Thank you for coming, Ned. You are the very person I need. I believe you have had some experience with steamship travel?”
Ned could not help smiling. Af
ter a moment, Pearse chuckled, too. “I realize that sounded absurd. Going down with the Titanic constitutes a great deal more than ‘some experience.’ What I really wanted to discuss with you was, how should I prepare for my journey? For example, is there any sovereign remedy to prevent seasickness?”
Ned sat down and answered Pearse’s questions as best he could. Then the tone of the conversation changed. Pearse confided, “I do not look forward to this voyage. The very thought of drowning is so terrible.” He blinked rapidly. “A Christian who believes in the immortality of the soul should not fear death. But I should hate to have it come to me so far from home, with my work yet undone. Tell me, Ned, to what do you credit your survival when the Titanic went down? Would you call it divine intervention?”
To the disappointment of his classmates, Ned never talked about the disaster. It hurt too much. But in the book-lined study, encouraged by a man he trusted, he made himself recall that terrible night.
From beyond the window came the shouts of boys on the playing field. For a moment they mimicked the screams of the dying, plunging Ned back into the icy Atlantic. He drew a deep breath and forced himself to be aware of the solidity of the chair beneath him, the hard edge of oak against the backs of his thighs.
The words came slowly. “When it was obvious the ship was going down I leaped from the rail. There was nothing else to do. I couldn’t get in a boat. They were all away by that time anyway. I had a life jacket on, but even so when I hit the water I went under. The water was so cold and so dark; I remember how it hissed in my ears. Then I bobbed to the surface. Once I could breathe again I felt—and this is very strange—I felt the most curious stillness, as if I were in the eye of a storm. I did nothing, thought nothing. I just floated. All around was pandemonium…yet inside of me was total calm.”
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