1916

by Morgan Llywelyn

  The older man leaned forward. “That was God’s presence,” he said with conviction, almost with envy, “assuring you that you were going to live.”

  Ned did not want to contradict Pearse, but he was bound by truth. “It wasn’t like that at all, I’m afraid. On every side I could hear the shrieks of the dying and I was convinced I would die too. I think what I experienced was not…not the buoyancy of hope but the certainty of death. It gave me a strange sort of peace.”

  “Peace,” echoed the man. “Indeed. The certainty of death must be a…liberating experience. When you know the worst there is nothing left to fear. The idea of death has always broken my heart, destroying as it does the gentle, innocent creatures of this earth, all things bright and green, all things young and happy. But perhaps…” Pearse fell silent. The glowing eyes gazed past Ned into some dark space of their own imagining.

  Chapter Seventeen

  WHEN Ned’s letter arrived Kathleen promptly took it to the presbytery. “My brother is full of such excitement,” she told Father Paul. “He talks about…what did he call it? ‘A conspiracy of poets’ that’s working to improve conditions in Ireland. Now his Mr. Pearse is coming to America on a lecture tour. He’ll be speaking right here in New York! I want so much to go and meet him, but Alexander won’t take me. He disapproves of the very idea. I can hardly go by myself, a woman without an escort.”

  In her voice the priest recognized boredom and discontent simmering below the surface. Duty obliged him to say, “It is a wife’s place to be obedient to her husband’s authority, Kathleen.”

  “‘A wife’s place!’ I’m beginning to think my place is to be a stuffed exhibit in a glass bell, one of those trophies Alexander loves to display. Well, I can’t live like that, Father. I thought I could, but I can’t. It isn’t natural.”

  Looking at her bright eyes and flushed cheeks, he was forced to agree. “No, Kathleen, such a life is not natural. Not for a healthy young woman like you. There is no reason why you should not have interests of your own, and if you want to go to hear this man speak, then I shall escort you myself.” As he said the words Paul felt a small thrill of defiance—defying Alexander Campbell, defying the church, defying all those powers that would crush the natural instincts.

  He knew he was flirting with danger; knew, and no longer cared. If Christ wanted him to be celibate, let Christ intervene.

  THE lecture Kathleen chose to attend was titled “An Ideal in Education,” conveniently scheduled on the same night as one of her husband’s Freemasonry meetings. Members of Clan na Gael had arranged for hiring the hall. A large amount of publicity was being generated for Pearse’s tour in the columns of the organization’s newspaper, the Gaelic American, which depicted him as a left-wing Irish nationalist.

  Although Father Paul did not subscribe to the Gaelic American, his housekeeper did, and made a point of showing him the articles. They disturbed the priest, but he had promised Kathleen he would take her and would not break his word.

  On the appointed night he hired a cab and called for Kathleen at her door. A blizzard was threatened; the streets were icy and the air crystalline with frost. As the cab drew up in front of the lecture hall they saw a number of men stationed around the doorway, smoking, talking, coldly inspecting new arrivals from under the brims of their caps. Something about their demeanor made Paul put a protective arm around Kathleen’s shoulders. “This may not have been such a good idea,” he told her.

  She laughed. “Nonsense. I’m with you, amn’t I? I feel very safe with you.” When she tilted her head back and looked up at him, he was very aware of the confiding way her body nestled into his embrace.

  His clerical collar had the usual effect; as they left the cab, the men around the doorway stepped aside respectfully.

  The hall was a great barn of a room with bare floors and rows of wooden chairs. In an effort to make it more festive swags of bunting had been draped along the high windowsills and around the edge of the speakers’ platform. A crowd of Irish-Americans, well fed and well dressed, were sitting in the audience and chatting amiably among themselves, but around the walls were ranged a number of lean, hard-faced men like those outside; men with nothing of America in their eyes.

  John Devoy, the seventy-two-year-old firebrand of Clan na Gael, made an introductory speech in which accents of County Kildare still lingered. It took him a long time to tell his audience that Patrick Henry Pearse was someone who needed no introduction. As Devoy spoke, Pearse sat quietly behind him, arms folded, head down, a man alone in himself. He seemed unaware of the praise being heaped upon him. There was nothing in his appearance to excite interest.

  At last Devoy turned and beckoned him forward. “New York City has a population of four million souls, Mr. Pearse,” Devoy said proudly, “of which nearly half live on Manhattan Island. Many of them are sympathetic to our cause and are eagerly waiting to hear what you have to say.”

  Pearse responded with a shy smile. Then he swept his eyes across the audience, cleared his throat nervously, and began to speak.

  With his first words he was transformed.

  As she listened, Kathleen was enchanted by the Irish in his voice. The land she had left called to her as never before. In Pearse’s speech she heard the cadences of James Clarence Mangan’s poetry as read aloud by her father on winter nights, saw the wings of linnets etched against an azure sky, gazed upon reed-fringed lakes enameled with sunset or turned into hammered silver with dawn. Watched the high summer sun transform the thatch of humble cottages into gold.

  Ostensibly, Pearse’s speech was about his school and his educational theories. But while stressing the need to raise money for Saint Enda’s, he placed the school in a larger context. Soon he was describing the Ireland that awaited his pupils: an Ireland they would construct for themselves.

  “That man’s a real orator,” Kathleen whispered to her companion.

  “He has a gift for language,” the priest agreed, “and he’s obviously in love with his subject.”

  “What’s wrong with that? Americans are quick to boast about America, but the Irish in Ireland rarely have a kind word to say about their own country. Such pride was beaten out of us long ago. It’s wonderful to hear someone—”

  “Ssshhh,” hissed a man seated behind them.

  Kathleen pressed her lips together and folded her hands demurely in her lap. But her eyes were shining.

  “Will the young men of Ireland,” Pearse was saying, “rise to the opportunity that is given them? The fate of Ireland in our time will very likely be determined by the way in which the Irish volunteer movement develops.

  “Remember that the Ulster unionists were the first to introduce the threat of violence into Irish politics. The year 1913 saw the arming of the Ulster Volunteer Force, whose intention is to deny the island of Ireland any hope of self-government. And I say this to you: To the extent they are willing to fight for their beliefs, the unionists may be the best Irishmen of us all!

  “The condition on which freedom is given to men is that they are able to make good their claim to it. Before this generation has passed the Irish Volunteers will draw the sword for Ireland. I do not know how nationhood is achieved except by armed men.”

  Pearse gazed out over the heads of his listeners as if he could see into some realm beyond the scope of mortal eye. Then he said very softly, so they had to lean forward to hear him, “Christ’s peace is lovely in its coming, beautiful are its feet on the mountains. But it is heralded by terrific messengers; seraphim and cherubim blow trumpets of war before it. We must not flinch when we are passing through that uproar; we must not faint at the sight of blood. Winning through it, we—or those of us who survive—shall come unto great joy. We and our fathers have known the Pax Britannica. To our sons we must bequeath the Peace of the Gael!”

  On the last words his voice rose to thunder. When he stopped speaking there was a moment of intense silence. Then a mighty roar filled the hall.

  Men leaped to their
feet, overturning chairs in their rush to the speaker’s platform. Everyone wanted a word with Pearse, or at the least to press his hand.

  Within moments the ardent orator was replaced by a diffident, ill-at-ease man who looked as if he wanted desperately to escape.

  “I must speak to him,” Kathleen told Paul as she stood up.

  “I don’t think that’s such a good…”

  But she was already edging her way through the crowd and the priest had no choice but to follow her.

  IN the cab on the way home, Kathleen enthused, “Is he not wonderful? He was so polite to me, and he spoke so highly of Ned.”

  “He does seem dedicated,” the priest said noncommittally.

  “Dedicated. Yes, that’s the word. To the school and to Ireland. And I want to help him.”

  “Help him raise money for his school, you mean?”

  “That wasn’t what he was talking about, not really.”

  “No,” Father Paul agreed. “He was talking about raising money for an armed rebellion. I’m troubled by the fact that such an otherwise idealistic man is putting his faith in the gun.”

  She shook her head. “Not in the gun. In Ireland and her future; Ned’s future and that of all the young people like him. I tell you, Paul, the Irish have a right to own their own souls!”

  “You’re too much under the spell of Mr. Pearse’s rhetoric,” warned the priest. “I urge you not to involve yourself in these matters, Kathleen.”

  “Why not? My husband and his Freemasons involve themselves in politics as much as they please. Why should I not support something I believe in? I’ve made a few friends in New York who might be persuaded to donate to a good cause. It’s little enough to be doing for Ned and his future, but I can do that much, thank God. I thought you would agree with me; you’re Irish too.”

  “I’m a priest,” he reminded her. “I can’t condone violence.”

  “Oh, come, Paul! What were the Crusades but the church condoning violence?”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Father Hagerty, our parish priest at home. He was the one who arranged for Ned to go to Mr. Pearse’s school.”

  Paul silently noted her use of the phrase “at home.” “Your Father Hagerty expresses an opinion contradictory to church teaching, Kathleen.”

  “The church doesn’t support his brand of nationalism, either,” she replied tartly. “The Irish are urged from the pulpit to be unquestioningly obedient to authority, meaning the Crown as well as Rome. I never questioned it before, but I’m beginning to now.”

  Paul frowned. “You’re beginning to question church teaching?”

  “Where it involves itself in politics, yes. In America, church and state are separate, I’ve learned that much since I’ve been here. Ireland’s in a very different situation. At home the church determines every aspect of our lives; we go from cradle to grave as our bishops dictate.

  “Is that freedom? Are we not taught that God has given us free will? In Ireland we’re not allowed any. I can see that now that I’m away. Plenty of guilt, oh, we’re welcome to that, but no freedom.”

  The priest said, “I’m sure you exaggerate, Kathleen. You’re overexcited tonight, otherwise you wouldn’t blame the church for Ireland’s ills.”

  “I’m not; the blame lies at Britain’s door. But what have we ever been able to do about it? The tragic thing is that individual priests have been patriots, but Risings have failed in the past when their bishops refused to support them. Some say it was just to protect church property.”

  “And you believe that?”

  “I never thought about it one way or the other until now. Mr. Pearse has started me thinking about a lot of things….” Her voice trailed away. She sat back against the buttoned black leather upholstery of the cab seat and gazed out the window in silence.

  Paul watched her out of the corner of his eye. He was annoyed that some turbulent priest back in Ireland had sowed the initial seeds of rebellion in her. Those seeds could bear bitter fruit if men like Patrick Pearse inflamed her passions.

  Women had no business involving themselves in politics. The church was right to disapprove. In America over a dozen individual states had by now granted women the right to vote, encouraging them to neglect their proper role as mothers and homemakers. Unsatisfied with this, suffragettes were vociferous in their demands for a female suffrage amendment to the United States Constitution. In Britain as well they were increasingly involved in protests and hunger strikes. At the Derby the year before, a suffragette had even thrown herself in front of the king’s horse and been killed.

  Surely it was the job of Kathleen’s confessor to save her from similar foolhardy passions.

  February 25, 1914

  CLAIMS THAT ULSTER VOLUNTEER

  FORCE NOW HAS 100,000 ARMED MEN

  Chapter Eighteen

  WHILE the headmaster was away in America, his brother Willie functioned as acting headmaster, keeping up everyone’s spirits and stalling importunate bank managers. Pádraic Pearse insisted on being sent detailed weekly bulletins of the boys’ scholastic progress, so these were added to his duties.

  Additional responsibilities fell on the Senior Boys as well, so Ned did not go back into the city until the first Saturday in April. The day was cold, with lowering clouds. It would have been pleasant to stay at Saint Enda’s and play chess with Brian Joyce, but Ned was determined to see Mary.

  He could not say why she haunted his mind so.

  Born and raised around livestock, he was familiar with the mechanics of sex. Since puberty Ned had experienced what he thought of as “rutting dreams.” Some were so vivid that he cried out in his sleep, or squirmed beneath the covers seeking relief. Occasionally a particular dream would linger in his memory for days, to be recalled again and again with guilty pleasure.

  When he mentioned these dreams in confession, however, the priest reacted as if he were hearing some shocking new sin. But Ned knew he was far from alone. Other boys in his dormitory at Saint Enda’s moaned in their sleep, too.

  Yet somehow he did not equate the cravings of his body with the longings of his heart.

  His Catholic upbringing denied there could be any connection. Purity as represented by the Virgin was the ultimate symbol of virtue. In spite of what Henry Mooney said, Her divine light ennobled all women.

  To Ned, Mary Cosgrave represented an ideal just as Mr. Pearse’s vision of a free Ireland was an ideal. Both were to be longed for; neither must be contaminated by anything base and vile.

  When Ned arrived at Brown Thomas the same commissionaire gave him the same professional smile, but instead of opening the door said, “Sorry, sir. Early closing today, two o’clock.”

  “You mean the shop’s not open?”

  “That’s right. Come back on Monday.”

  “But I can’t…” Just then Ned saw Mary Cosgrave emerge from a side entrance amid a bevy of shop assistants leaving for the day. Thankfully, he hurried toward her.

  She was even prettier than he remembered, and smaller. When he called “Miss Cosgrave!” she did not recognize him. She stared blankly at him for a moment, then her face lit with a smile.

  “Why, you’re Mr. Mooney’s friend, aren’t you?”

  Ned was abashed to realize she had not been thinking of him as much as he had been thinking of her over the winter. “I am Henry Mooney’s friend,” he replied stiffly. “We met after the Larkin riot.”

  “Of course! You’re the boy who saved my father. How is your poor head now?”

  “Fine, thank you. I…uh…are you going somewhere? May I escort you?”

  Mary rewarded him with another smile and put her tiny hand on his arm. “I’m going to meet my friend Eliza Goggins—she works at Switzer’s Drapery Shop—so we can have lunch together. It’s our weekly treat. Would you care to join us?”

  The last thing Ned wanted was to have a third person around when he finally had the chance to be with Mary. But there was no graceful way to decline. Soon he
was squiring the two shopgirls to a café nestled among the victuallers, greengrocers, and poulterers in Chatham Street.

  “We often eat here if it’s raining,” Eliza explained after they were seated at a small, none-too-clean table. “But when it’s fine we buy white bread and cheese and picnic on the Green.”

  “That’s ever so much nicer,” said Mary, frowning at the flyspecked menu.

  Eliza Goggins was a couple of years older than Mary, a plain, thin girl with bad posture, a rabbity face, and red-rimmed eyes. “There’s a lot of consumption in her family,” Mary had confided to Ned while they were waiting for her outside Switzer’s.

  “There’s consumption in almost every family,” he replied. “They call it tuberculosis now, you know. We read about it in school. It’s caused by a bacillus discovered by a German physician in 1882.”

  Ned was mildly disappointed that Mary did not ask him to tell her more.

  During lunch he listened while the two girls chatted. He had never heard young working women discuss their lives before.

  For his benefit Mary boasted, “Drapery is a highly desirable occupation. Only the most genteel Irish families can apprentice a son or daughter—for a fee, of course—to the better shops. Eliza and I are lucky. There’s hundreds who are worked to exhaustion in shops not nearly as nice as ours.”

  “It’s better than it used to be, though,” Eliza said. She had the disconcerting habits of twisting her hands together and fidgeting with her cutlery. “Mary wasn’t in employment when we worked a full six-day week, from early morning until long after the shop closed in the evening. Now thanks to the association we have a weekly half-holiday.”

  Mary gave a dainty sniff. “You and your association.”

  “What is that?” asked Ned.

  “The Drapers’ Assistants’ Association,” Eliza told him. She had begun twining her legs together under the table. Ned longed to tell her to sit still; her nervous mannerisms were distracting. “They’ve done ever so much for us. They’re campaigning now for an end to dismissals without cause. I’m a member, and Mary should be, too.”