1916

by Morgan Llywelyn

  Mr. Cosgrave put a barring arm across the doorway. “I won’t have you talking to this fellow, Mary.”

  “What do you mean? Is something wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong,” Ned said. “I just came to tell you I joined the Irish National Volunteer Corps today.” He spun out the full name with pride.

  “Oh Ned, is that why you’re in this disgraceful state? Did those…those awful revolutionaries get you drunk?”

  “Of course not, they—”

  “They’re as bad as the unions, Papa,” Mary said to Mr. Cosgrave. “Taking men away from their homes, giving them drink, getting them into trouble.” Her words seemed to be part of an angry ongoing conversation between father and daughter. Then she turned on her young suitor, “Ned, I’m ashamed of you.”

  His jaw dropped. “But I’m going to have a uniform! I thought you liked—”

  “Come back to see me when you are yourself again,” Mary said firmly.

  The door slammed.

  Ned raised his fist to pound on the wood, thought better of it, and turned away. Going down the steps, he stumbled.

  “Hell. Bloody hell. Dammit it to bloody hell!”

  The ride back to Rathfarnham was longer than it had ever been. He neither whistled nor sang.

  I always get caught, he thought bitterly. Why me? Why doesn’t this happen to other men?

  By the time he reached Saint Enda’s he was sober. A drizzle of cold rain had begun to fall, emphasizing his bleak mood. He knew he had made a fool of himself in front of Mary Cosgrave. When he stepped off his bicycle he aimed a kick at the front tire. “There,” he said. But he felt no better.

  Hoping to find Pádraic Pearse, he went first to the dining room behind Pearse’s study. Mary Brigid often practiced there on the piano or on the harp her older brother had given her. Pádraic Pearse loved to listen to her play the old Irish airs.

  But only Willie was in the dining room. Sitting at the oval mahogany table, he looked up from a plate smeared with the last streaks of pudding to say, “Hullo, Ned! You’re destroyed with the damp, take off that jacket and hang it on the back of a chair. Do you want something to eat?”

  “I’m not hungry, thanks. Is the headmaster here?”

  “He took the afternoon train to Limerick to make a recruiting speech for the Volunteers. He won’t be back until tomorrow.”

  “That’s a coincidence. I wanted to tell him I’ve joined the Volunteers.”

  Willie jumped up and clapped Ned on the back. “Good on you, oh, good on you! We’ll get the mother to make us a fresh pot of tea and you can tell me all about it.”

  Warmed by Willie’s enthusiasm, Ned’s spirits lifted. After Mrs. Pearse brought more tea and a basin of oxtail soup, he related the events of his day. He did not mention Mary, but said offhandedly, “I suppose some might call the Volunteers revolutionaries.”

  “Nonsense! The desire for independence isn’t revolutionary, Ned. It’s evolutionary. It’s what John Mitchel called ‘that holy hatred of foreign dominion.’ Once you feel it, there’s no going back.” Willie’s eye fell on the folded newspaper sticking out of Ned’s jacket pocket. “You have a copy of Sinn Féin there, I see.”

  “I bought it in Clarke’s today.”

  “The publisher’s Arthur Griffith, a good example of political evolution. He trained as a printer and supported Parnell in his last campaign.3 Later he scraped together all the money he could and began publishing the United Irishman. He wrote much of the copy himself so he could explain his ideas for national regeneration.

  “Griffith—he’s a friend of Pat’s, by the way—had spent years developing an elaborate plan that involved mutual cooperation between Irishmen of all classes and faiths. He also advocated compromise and a flexible approach to achieving political aims. He’s a moderate sort of man; initially he envisioned working within the British framework and even suggested a dual monarchy.

  “But as time passed, Griffith recognized that the British government was never going to do anything for the Irish but take advantage of them. We had no big brother we could trust; we were on our own.

  “Griffith’s next venture into publishing was a weekly he called Sinn Féin, Ourselves Alone. In the pages of Sinn Féin he rejected the right of Britain to rule Ireland and began calling for sovereign independence. See what I mean about evolution? His editorials expressed a deep mistrust of using physical force, however, and insisted that political negotiation was the only way to achieve our freedom.”

  “Do you agree with him?”

  Willie Pearse sighed. “I wish I could. But negotiation with Britain has never accomplished anything for us. Greed is greed, Ned. You can’t talk people out of imperialism when they find it so profitable.

  “Anyway, as a result of his writings a political party grew up around Arthur Griffith. Pat was attracted to his ideas about education and attended the inaugural meeting in 1905. He decided not to join, though, because he had too many other things on his plate.

  “In 1908, Griffith’s party formally adopted the name Sinn Féin. Aside from publishing the newspaper, they haven’t done much since. The true believers advocate Griffith’s passive resistance, but some of the younger ones feel it’s too timid an approach. As a result there’s division in the party. You know your history, Ned; the faction fight is nothing new in Ireland. Divide and be conquered, that’s always been our problem.”

  “Last week the Irish Times referred to the Volunteers as Sinn Féiners,” said Ned. “That made me curious, so I bought the newspaper to help me understand the connection.”

  Willie lifted the lid and peered regretfully into the now-empty teapot. “There isn’t any connection aside from the fact that both organizations want to see Ireland independent of Britain. The Volunteer Corps is a private army governed by its own Provisional Committee and helped financially by the IRB. Sinn Féin, on the other hand, is a political party like Redmond’s Parliamentarians or Carson’s Unionists. They fund themselves the way all political parties do, through private donations. But they’re certainly not an army. The policy of Sinn Féin is Arthur Griffith’s, and he’s against any form of militarism.

  “The Times should know that, Ned, but they mirror the British attitude. Miscalling the Volunteers is a typical demonstration of British ignorance and arrogance.

  “It would be more accurate to describe the Volunteers as Fenians because of the IRB affiliation. Granted, some members of Sinn Féin have joined the corps. But so have a lot of Redmondites. And that’s another problem. Eamonn Ceannt and Seán MacDermott were furious about it, but Redmond insisted on twenty-five of his men being nominated to the Volunteers’ Provisional Committee. Eoin MacNeill and Bulmer Hobson supported him by arguing that the corps is open to men of any political persuasion. Now Redmond’s nominees form a majority on the council.”

  “So the Times could justifiably call the Volunteers ‘Parliamentarians’ if they wanted to,” Willie Pearse added with a mischievous chuckle.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  THE Volunteers had increased their drill schedule and training camps were being opened throughout the country. The corps claimed a nationwide membership in excess of a hundred thousand with more joining every day. A separate women’s organization, Cumann na mBan, the Society of Women, had been formed in April and was helping raise funds to equip the Volunteers.1

  “They are allies, not subordinates,” Ned had stressed in his latest letter to his sister. “Madame Markievicz belongs to Cumann na mBan, as you might expect, but so do many women from the middle class. They are dedicated to advancing the cause of liberty and we’re dreadfully proud of them.”

  Kathleen could not help a pang of envy. Allies, not subordinates.

  After her first fund-raising luncheon Alexander had announced, “I want no more of those events held in my house, Kate. Do you understand me?”

  “But I already have the invitations ordered for another,” she protested. “It’s for a good cause. My friends think so too, or they wou
ldn’t have given money. And pledged to give more, Alexander. Even Alderman Claffey’s wife—”

  “I don’t care what any other man’s wife does. You are my wife, and you shall do as I say. That’s an end to it.”

  “I will not be stifled,” she whispered to herself in the overstuffed golden gloom of the parlor. “I will not.”

  Going to their bedroom, she opened the mirrored door of the mahogany wardrobe that faced the bed. Kathleen did not like having a mirror reflecting everything that happened in the bed. If anything, it made her more inhibited than she was. Several times she had asked Alexander to have the piece moved, but it was still there.

  At the back of the wardrobe was a row of her shoes, including a pair of kidskin boots. She took these out and from the toe extracted a roll of dollar bills, the most recent pledges. Then she hunted through the wardrobe again until she found a small silk reticule. The purse held a single pasteboard card bearing the name and address of John Devoy, of Clan na Gael.

  NED was assigned to Rathfarnham E Company, 4th Battalion, Dublin Brigade—the same company as the Pearse brothers and Con Colbert—and given a dummy wooden rifle. He practiced in front of the mirror, holding the “rifle” at different angles and looking stern.

  To his delight, a long march to Howth and back was announced for the twenty-sixth of July. The day was a Sunday. For Ned that meant getting early Mass before hurrying in to the city. The Pearse brothers were not going. “Marching eighteen miles would be a bit too much for Pat,” Willie explained. “He looks big and strong but he’s not all that fit. I’ve tried time and again to get him interested in handball but he says he hasn’t the time. Which is fair enough, he hasn’t.

  “As for me, I have to finish the sculpture Mr. Fitzherbert commissioned. He’s coming to collect it in the morning and we need the money. Pat and I won’t be the only ones not going, though. Seán MacDermott could never walk that far either.”

  “That’s a pity,” Ned replied. “He’s the very one who would enjoy it the most.”

  “He would. It’s a shame about his leg, but he gets around well enough on that bicycle of his. There are some who would say he gets around far too well!”

  Though Sunday morning dawned without rain, a near gale was blowing. Ned cycled as far as Rathfarnham but was almost blown over, so he left his machine at the tram stop in full confidence it would be waiting for him when he returned, and rode the tram into Dublin. He was glad the orders specified an “unarmed march,” and assumed it was because they had such a long way to go. He would have felt silly boarding the tram with a piece of timber crudely carved to resemble a rifle.

  The assembly site was a piece of waste ground near the quays. Seán Heuston was already there when Ned arrived. So was Con Colbert, accompanied by a troop of Fianna with a large trek cart.

  “What’s the cart for?” Ned asked Heuston.

  Seán Heuston was a sturdy young man with a broad forehead and fierce eyebrows above dark, intelligent eyes. His humor ran to sarcasm. “You’re looking at the glorious arsenal of the Dublin Brigade. That cart’s loaded with oak batons. Men like The O’Rahilly who have real guns bring them, of course. He has a Mauser pistol he calls ‘Peter Painter’ that I’d kill for. But no one’s selling pistols now.”

  “Parliament made it against the law to import arms into this country as soon as the Irish Volunteers were founded,” Ned reminded him.

  “That may be, but just yesterday the Press ran a story about the UVF marching through Belfast displaying machine guns. Carson himself claimed credit for bringing the guns in at Larne. You’d think the British would charge him with treason. The leader of the Unionist Party is openly defying the law, yet they treat him like a hero.”

  Overhearing them as he passed by, a tall man interjected, “No effort will be made to halt the gun-running to the north.” He sounded angry. “Only we are to be hobbled and crippled.” His sloping shoulders and long beak of a nose made Ned think of some great, gawky bird. As he walked away he towered head and shoulders over the men around him.

  “Do you know him?” Ned asked Heuston.

  “He’s a mathematics teacher from County Limerick. Name’s Eamon de Valera. He’s half Irish and half Spanish, but I heard somewhere he was born in America.”2

  The crowd was growing fast, overflowing the rubble-littered waste ground. Bulmer Hobson, wearing binoculars on a thong around his neck, arrived in a motorcar with Thomas MacDonagh and immediately began issuing orders. The two men were in charge of organizing the day’s exercise, although MacDonagh was content to let Hobson do the shouting. They were soon joined by Cathal Brugha, who in addition to being an officer in the Volunteers ran a firm manufacturing ecclesiastical candles. This earned him a certain amount of good-natured teasing from the other men.

  MacDonagh was electric with excitement. When he saw Ned and Seán Heuston he hurried over to them, bouncing off the balls of his feet as he walked. “I’m glad you could both make it!”

  “There’s a fine crowd gathered,” Ned commented.

  “We’ve eight hundred Volunteers here, more than enough for the job at hand.” MacDonagh’s eyes were twinkling. “Here, Charley,” he called to Cathal Brugha, “since you’re organizing a picked squad I recommend these two. They’re good men and they know how to take orders.”

  “Thank you, sir,” said Ned.

  “You’ll thank me more when this day is over. I promise you a tale to tell your grandchildren.”

  With Bulmer Hobson in the lead and the Fianna bringing up the rear with the trek cart, eight companies of the Dublin Brigade set out to march to Howth. In spite of the threatening weather they were in high spirits.

  The column passed unimpeded through the city and its outskirts. People nodded to them as they went by; a few waved and cheered. The Volunteers broke into song. They began with “Native Swords,” followed by “Erin Go Bragh” and “Kelly, the Boy from Killane.” The martial thunder of “O’Donnell Abu” contrasted dramatically with the lyric tragedy of “Boulavogue.”

  As Ned sang “A rebel hand set the heather blazing,” he felt gloriously alive.

  By the time they reached the narrow isthmus of Sutton the wind howling in from the sea was enough to take a man’s breath away. Ned wiped his watering eyes and turned up the collar of his jacket.

  Famed for its spectacular promontory and historic castle, Howth boasted thirteen hundred inhabitants and a thriving fishing industry. On Howth Head, the Bailey Lighthouse, with its gaslight beacon, had revolutionized the earlier system of oil lamps. Electric trams provided transportation to and from Dublin. In addition to telegraph facilities, the telephone company had recently opened a public call-office.

  There were three churches in the town—Catholic, Presbyterian, and Methodist—a coast guard station, and an office of the Royal Irish Constabulary, the police force responsible for the countryside beyond the jurisdiction of the DMP. Like their Dublin counterparts, the rank and file of the constabulary were Irishmen.

  Ned wondered what it would be like to live in one of the cottages tucked among the slopes. He imagined himself coming home at the end of the day to find Mary waiting in the parlor, perhaps with a baby in her arms. She would greet him with that sweet smile of hers, while from the kitchen came the aroma of—

  “Yer out of step,” hissed the man on his right.

  The column was marching along the Harbor Road when a gleaming De Dion Bouton roared by. Ned saw Professor MacNeill in the front passenger seat and two women in the back. The touring car had passed before he realized the driver was Michael O’Rahilly.

  As the column approached Howth Harbor, Bulmer Hobson called a halt and raised his binoculars. He scanned the sea in the direction of Ireland’s Eye, the rocky, deserted islet guarding the harbor mouth. After sweeping the glasses from horizon to horizon he said in a tense voice, “There’s no sign of the motorboat. We might as well go on, though. It’s almost noon.”

  Cathal Brugha beckoned to two of the older men in his squad.
“You know what to do,” he said curtly. They promptly trotted off. The other members of the squad exchanged curious glances, but no one said anything.

  When they reached the stone quay fronting the harbor they found The O’Rahilly in civilian clothes already standing there.3 His automobile, with MacNeill and the two women still inside, was parked a short distance away.

  “Right, lads,” Brugha said crisply. “We’re taking possession of the pier. Look sharp!” While he stationed his squad at intervals along the wooden pier the rest of the column waited at quayside. When everything was ready Brugha conferred in an undertone with The O’Rahilly. The two men took turns looking through the binoculars and consulting their watches.

  Within minutes more private cars and motor cabs pulled up and parked nearby. The drivers did not get out, merely sat waiting. Some kept their engines running. Ned noticed spectators gathering on the hillside overlooking the harbor, staring down at the assembled men. A woman waved her parasol; several Volunteers cheerfully waved back.

  “What do you think is going on?” Ned asked Seán Heuston out of the side of his mouth.

  “Hard to say, we’ve never had a drill quite like this before. Perhaps we…Hullo! Look at that!”

  A yacht was beating its way toward Howth through the gale, white sails like flags whipping in the wind.

  Cathal Brugha let out a triumphant whoop.

  The O’Rahilly shouted, “It’s the harbinger of liberty!”

  The yacht was riding dangerously low in the heavy swells. Considerable skill was required to maneuver through the narrow harbor mouth and reach the pier without smashing into any of the boats riding at anchor. A small crew, two women among them, began tossing lines to the Volunteers. Within moments the yacht was securely docked.

  A tired-looking man in oilskins clambered onto the pier as if his bones ached, and tossed Cathal Brugha a sketchy salute. “Erskine Childers, captain of the Asgard, reporting with merchandise from Germany. Bought with American dollars, may I add,” he said in a strong British accent.