1916

by Morgan Llywelyn

  One look at her face told him there was trouble. He hurried down the aisle toward her. “What is it, what’s wrong?”

  “Have you seen this?” She waved a folded newspaper.

  Kathleen sank into the nearest pew and Paul sat down beside her. In spite of her anxiety he thought she looked very beautiful. Her dark curls clung to her temples from the summer heat; her muslin shirtwaist was limp with perspiration, outlining her body.

  She handed him the latest edition of the newspaper. The headlines screamed of Austria’s declaration of war on her neighbor. For months military posturing in Europe had been escalating, so he was hardly surprised. But before he could begin to read about the Serbian crisis Kathleen leaned past him and riffled through the pages. She called his attention to a column near the back of the paper, almost lost amid datelines from Britain and France.

  He caught the fragrance of lavender rising from her overheated flesh.

  “There,” she said, stabbing the article with her finger.

  The priest read aloud, “‘Dublin, Ireland. Three civilians were killed outright and at least thirty-five wounded on Sunday when British troops, having failed to impound weapons illegally imported by the Irish Volunteers, opened fire on an angry mob in Bachelor’s Walk.’”

  “It was Ned,” Kathleen said. “They shot Ned!”

  “How do you know? There are no names given.”

  “I can feel it here!” She pressed her hand to her bosom. “And as for those weapons—I’ve been sending the Volunteers money, Paul! Through John Devoy. I knew they were using it to buy rifles. What if I paid for the gun that got my brother killed?”

  He tried to calm her. “You’re jumping to conclusions. You have no reason to think Ned was involved in this.”

  “Yes I do, read on. The Volunteers involved were the Dublin Brigade. Ned’s joined the Dublin Brigade; I just received his letter. Oh, Paul, what am I going to do?”

  He had no choice but to put his arm around her and press her hot face into his shoulder. “There’s nothing you can do. Whatever happened is already over, and besides, it’s three thousand miles away. If it will make you feel better, write Ned immediately, or better still, send a cablegram. Surely you can arrange one through the White Star office.”

  “I feel so helpless.”

  “Would you like me to go with you to send the cable?”

  “Would you?” she asked with heartbreaking eagerness. Then her shoulders slumped. “I can’t ask you to do that, you must have a hundred more important things to do.”

  “No, I don’t.” And now I’m telling lies, he thought. No, Kathleen, I don’t have anything more important to do, just meet the constant demands on my time and energy that each day brings: visit the sick, go over the accounts, answer the correspondence, make out my report for the bishop, teach the confirmation class…

  THE staff in the White Star office seated Kathleen in a comfortable chair and brought her tea and bonbons while Paul stood in the background, conspicuous in his Roman collar. People were polite to him, but Alexander Campbell’s wife received special treatment.

  Kathleen sent the cablegram to Saint Enda’s, the only address she had for Ned. “While we’re here do you want to send one to your other brother? Or the police?” Paul suggested.

  “Frank and Aunt Norah would die of heart seizure if they got a cable. They had one before, you know. The Titanic. As for the police…ah no, this will do. If I don’t get a reply from Ned within a day or two I shall cable Mr. Pearse personally.”

  Kathleen was still upset as Paul escorted her home. Recalling the Titanic had increased her anxiety. She linked her hand with Paul’s arm and held on tight. On the stoop she paused one step above him, then turned and looked into his eyes. “Would you care to come in? I’ll have Della make a pitcher of cold lemonade for us.”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea right now, Kathleen. You’re upset; you should go and lie down with a cool cloth on your forehead. You don’t need the strain of trying to entertain me.”

  “It would be no strain. I just don’t want to be alone right now.” She was flushed and the day was hot: the sultry, pervasive heat of New York in summer. In her overwrought state she might faint, Paul thought.

  He meant to say, I must get back to the church. He meant to say a lot of things. Instead he found himself following her into the house and closing the door behind them.

  WITH a little girl screaming in his arms, Ned fled the bullets. He had no thought but to save the child; the memory of Bloody Sunday was too clear in his mind. It was imperative he get the child someplace safe where she would be looked after until her people came for her.

  If they came for her.

  The shooting continued behind them.

  Glancing down, he observed that she was very thin and far from clean. Her little feet were bare, and her pinafore was ragged. One of the tenement children, probably.

  Anger flooded through him.

  The Charitable Infirmary in nearby Jervis Street seemed the nearest safe haven. It was likely that other victims would be brought there as well; the child would stand a chance of being united with her mother.

  The sound of gunfire on the quays was having a mixed effect on Dubliners. A few bold souls were running down to see, but most were deliberately going the other way. By the time Ned reached Jervis Street the little girl had stopped screaming and was sobbing helplessly.

  An elderly Sister of Mercy with a face like crumpled linen met him at the hospital door. “What have we here?”

  “The soldiers are firing on people,” Ned panted. “I grabbed this child and ran.”

  “Is she yours?”

  “She is not. I don’t know her at all. But I saw her mother fall. Bayoneted,” he added.

  “Merciful hour!” The nun rolled up her eyes. “Here, bring the poor mite in and we’ll see what we can do for her. I would say a wash and a cup of milk would be in order. Do you want to wait?”

  “I told you, she isn’t mine. But I…Thank you, I shall wait.” He sank gratefully onto a varnished wooden bench in the reception area. He badly needed to catch his breath and collect his scattered thoughts.

  Seán Heuston. Where was Seán? He remembered seeing his friend just before the woman dropped her child. He had been standing upright and unharmed, but anything could have happened since then.

  I must go back, Ned told himself. But as he stood up another nun came bustling up to him holding a sheaf of papers in one hand. “What’s the name of the little girl you brought in?”

  “Is she all right?”

  “She doesn’t appear to be injured, but we haven’t got much information from her. Her mother is called Mama and she lives in a house with a ‘chimbley.’” Abruptly the woman smiled, revealing the ageless beauty many nuns possessed. “We need a bit more information than that.”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t help. I never saw her before a few minutes ago. Does she not know her own name?”

  The nun’s smile deepened. “Indeed she does. She insists she is called Precious.”

  “I’m going back to look for a friend of mine. I’ll see what I can find out about her, and—”

  “Excuse me a moment.” The nun’s eyes went past Ned to a dapper, pear-shaped man who had just entered the hospital. He wore a top hat and sported a luxuriant walrus mustache. “Mr. Grantham!” she called. “You’re very welcome.”

  He removed his hat and tucked it under his arm as he came toward her. “Good evening, Sister Concepta. As we were driving in from the Park we discovered there is a riot in progress on the quays. I assume they might bring any injured parties here, and I would appreciate having the details to report.” His accent was purest Etonian.

  Sister Concepta replied, “This young man was just there; he can tell you more than I. His name is…” She glanced quizzically at Ned.

  “Ned. Edward Halloran. And it’s not just a riot, it’s a war.”

  “Oh, dear, I am sorry to hear that, Mr. Halloran.” After a polite pau
se to express distress the other man extended his hand. “My name is Neville Grantham. I’m employed by the chief secretary’s office in Dublin Castle as a liaison officer with His Excellency, the Marquess of Aberdeen.”

  The Marquess of Aberdeen was Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, the viceroy of a conquered land. King George’s surrogate.

  The face of the enemy.

  Ned ignored the outstretched hand.

  Grantham diplomatically turned back to Sister Concepta. “I have a government motorcar and driver outside, and I would be happy to put them at your disposal, Sister. An official vehicle might be the fastest way to transport casualties.”

  In a voice shaking with anger, Ned cried, “Casualties? People have just been shot down in the street like dogs. Irish people!”

  “What difference does that make?” asked Grantham. “They’re human beings.”

  Sister Concepta nodded. “Just so, and I thank you for your offer, Mr. Grantham. The chief secretary has been generous with his patronage to us in the past, and we’re always grateful.” She shot an admonitory glance at Ned.

  He realized this was no time to alienate a man who offered help. “I apologize for my rudeness, sir. May I drive down with you? I need to find a friend of mine.”

  “Of course. Can you leave now?”

  “We’ll take good care of Precious,” Sister Concepta promised Ned. “You call back later and see how she is.”

  Ned and three nurses fitted easily into the big motorcar with Grantham. Avoiding the congested street, the driver threaded his way through service laneways. During the brief journey Ned told Grantham what little he knew about the shooting, though he neglected to mention that he was a Volunteer.

  “Someone’s head will roll for this,” Grantham predicted. “It’s no way to treat people. We would never have had so much trouble in Ireland if we—” He clamped his lips together and said nothing more.

  The motorcar purred to a halt on Lower Ormond Quay. By now ambulances were trying to reach the scene, but the milling crowd did not part for them as readily as it did for a car with British flags on the fenders. The DMP were also arriving, too late to do any good. Meanwhile the King’s Own were massed on the Ha’penny Bridge, looking, Ned thought, like a herd of cattle alarmed by thunder.

  By this time it was after seven. Summer evenings remained light until after ten, so the scene was clearly illumined. The walking wounded were making their way toward home, leaning on one another. Several people were still lying in the street, but none of them was Seán Heuston.

  Nor was there any sign of Precious’s mother.

  Grantham and the others got out of the car. The nurses went to the nearest still bodies while Grantham headed for the bridge, located the officer in charge, and began questioning him.

  Ned paced the blood-spattered quayside, romantically called Bachelor’s Walk, searching for his friend. He skirted pools of congealing gore. With a sense of unreality he observed a mass of pinkish-gray brain tissue spilling out of the skull of a man who lay facedown across the tram tracks, one arm outstretched as if pleading for mercy.

  The man was not Seán Heuston.

  Two ambulance attendants brushed Ned aside and lifted the man onto a litter. Ned bent and scooped up the spilled brains and laid them beside the ruined head before it was covered with a blanket. One of the attendants looked at him questioningly.

  He had no answer.

  Although his car had carried away a load of casualties, Neville Grantham was still questioning witnesses. Policemen were doing the same. By moving unobtrusively from one side of the road to the other Ned managed to avoid speaking to any of the DMP. He waited until Grantham finished talking with one of the army officers, then caught his attention. “I wanted to tell you good-bye, and thank you. I’m going home now, sir,” he said politely.

  There were dark bags under Grantham’s eyes that Ned had not noticed earlier. “Don’t judge us all by what happened here today, Edward Halloran. Most of us are just doing our best, given the circumstances as we know them.”

  The circumstances as we know them. “That’s all anyone can do, sir,” Ned said aloud.

  He called back to the Jervis Street hospital to inquire about Precious. Sister Concepta assured him she was tucked up in a warm bed and fast asleep.

  “Has anyone come for her?”

  “Not yet. Perhaps tomorrow.”

  “Let me leave my name, then. I can be reached at Saint Enda’s School, if she needs anything.”

  The ride back to Rathfarnham on the tram took place in daylight, but Ned’s soul felt the weight of night.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  IN a land that cherished funerals, the burial of the Bachelor’s Walk victims was a major event. Thousands attended. An honor guard of Volunteers accompanied the coffins to the cemetery and fired a volley over the graves. As a sign of respect, men stood with bared heads in a driving rain.

  Some of the Dublin shawlies began a wild, mournful keening. The hackle-raising wail of the women was the voice of a conquered people who had felt the heavy hand of their conquerors yet again.

  Henry Mooney was among the newspaper reporters at the funeral. He saw Ned with the Volunteers, but waited until the young man was leaving the cemetery before approaching him.

  “I was in Bachelor’s Walk, Henry,” Ned told his friend. “I saw it all.”

  The newspaperman’s eyes lit up. “Would you give me an exclusive interview? The Independent would let me run it with a byline, I’m sure.”

  “I shall, but…wait until tomorrow, if you don’t mind. I have to go now, I must send a cable to my sister in America to assure her I’m all right.”

  The next day Henry arrived at Saint Enda’s with a fresh notepad and a waistcoat pocket full of sharpened pencils. Mrs. Pearse showed him into the sparsely furnished drawing room, where he found Ned waiting for him. She supplied the men with lemonade and gingersnap biscuits, then left them alone.

  “I appreciate this; it’s been difficult to get people to talk,” the journalist said. “The ones who are willing to tell everything they know are the ones who know nothing.”

  “What about the official investigation?”

  “It’s already begun, but in the heel of the hunt it may produce very little. Commissioner Harrel’s gone to ground to avoid being questioned. Some claim he was acting on his own. If so, he’s not the only person who exceeded his authority that day. The officers of the King’s Own have a lot to answer for. Even if the shooting was spontaneous, they should have had better control of their men.” Henry dropped his voice. “And there’s a rumor it was not spontaneous.”

  Honesty compelled Ned to say, “I was there and I heard no order to fire.”

  “That doesn’t mean anything. It could have been said under some officer’s breath while they were being lined up in the road. Shooting protestors is a very effective way to stop a protest. And start a war,” Henry added grimly. “But wonder of wonders, for once the House of Commons is taking our side. Volunteers parading in the streets of Dublin are not, from the Westminster point of view, a threat to the empire. Since the UVF are allowed to parade with arms, the government does not want to be seen as discriminating against the southern Volunteers.”

  Ned exclaimed, “That was exactly the point Thomas MacDonagh made on the day! But it did him no good with Harrel.”

  “No amount of reason will sway people who don’t want to listen to reason. That peculiar form of deafness has long been a problem in Ireland. Perhaps it’s something in the water,” Henry added lightly.

  Ned was in no mood for levity. “Was Harrel acting on orders from Dublin Castle?”

  “If he was—and I honestly don’t know—they won’t admit it. I’ve already talked to my contacts there. I was reminded that the Castle has made no effort to quash the Citizen Army or—and this is a direct quote—‘any of the other little self-styled militarist groups who like to strut about.’ In the current official view, to act against them would be to give them too much
importance. I suspect the truth is somewhat different. With the situation in Europe as bad as it is, Britain is looking at the Citizen Army and the Volunteers as ready-made reinforcements.”

  With his hands thrust deep in his pockets, Henry went over to the open window and drew a deep breath of fresh air. Summer was drawing to a close. The flowers in the borders Michael MacRory lovingly tended were at their flamboyant best. Sheep were cropping the emerald lawns. No scene could have appeared more peaceful.

  He turned back to Ned. “You never heard me say this, but Dublin Castle has its finger in every unsavory pie in Ireland. They know all the tricks of control and don’t hesitate to employ them, up to and including forging police records, that sort of thing. Both the Dublin Metropolitan Police and the Royal Irish Constabulary are under their control, remember. Added to that, for years they’ve paid informers to monitor the movements of any organization that dares to espouse nationalism.

  “The Castle won’t try to crush the Volunteers if they think they can use them. I suspect they’ve already infiltrated the corps with spies. A government bribing people to betray their own kind is reprehensible, yet it’s been going on in this country since the time of Queen Elizabeth.”

  “Henry Mooney, you’re a nationalist through and through!”

  “Why do you think I write for the Independent? The Irish Times wouldn’t have me as a feature writer; they have too strong a British bias.”

  Ned said, “War might make a difference. People have always claimed England’s difficulty would be Ireland’s opportunity.”

  “I hope to God that’s true, but I fear war can only make things worse for Ireland. Already the bulk of our produce is being shipped to Britain. Thousands of cattle and pigs and tons of corn are going out of here just as they did during the height of the Famine. The excuse now is that the British army needs supplies. But what about the needs of the Irish at home? Are we to subsist on bread and dripping?

  “We’ve seen the politics of domination played out here to the ultimate degree, Ned. Other British colonies are geographically at one remove, but unfortunate Ireland on her doorstep receives the brunt of the bullying. No matter how much they take from us they want more.”