1916

by Morgan Llywelyn

  “Henry, I never heard you speak so passionately before.”

  “I never stood in the rain by the graves of slaughtered innocents before, listening to a shriek of grief that’s echoed across this land for centuries.”

  “Is that what you’ll say when you write about Bachelor’s Walk?”

  “I don’t know just what I’ll say yet. In the heel of the hunt, I may be a bit more restrained. I joked a while ago about being infected by something in the water, but it’s not much of a joke. We have been infected, we Irishmen; infected with servility and fear. We cringe before the threat of British disapproval. It’s tragic and pathetic and will take generations to overcome. I’m not sure I can throw it off by my next deadline, no matter how much I want to. I envy you, Ned. By nature I’m a peaceful man, but sometimes I wish I had the courage to carry a rifle on my shoulder.”

  “You would, if you’d listened to Pádraic Pearse as I have.”

  “Is he really that much of an influence? The consensus in the Castle is that Tom Clarke’s the one to watch. Your headmaster is seen as a relatively harmless eccentric, a history-mad schoolteacher who writes poetry. The authorities are compiling a dossier on Pearse, of course, in case there’s ever any serious trouble and they want to bring him in. But Clarke’s an unreconstructed Fenian; they watch him like hawks watching a hare.”

  For the first time in days Ned managed a faint smile. “Perhaps they underestimate the power of a conspiracy of poets.”

  The two men sat in Mrs. Pearse’s best armchairs on either side of the white marble fireplace. The red brocade chairs were slightly worn, and the fireplace was cold. There were only a few chairs and a table or two in the room, but the walls were covered with paintings and engravings by Irish artists or of Irish subjects.

  When Ned began recounting his memories, Henry took notes, occasionally asking him to repeat a statement or clarify an inconsistency. By the time they were finished Ned felt as if he had lived the twenty-sixth of July all over again. He had omitted certain details, however. He said nothing of the unmanning terror that had raced through him when the shooting began.

  Nor did he relate incriminating specifics of the gunrunning at Howth.

  Ned trusted Henry, but the journalist’s comments about spies and infiltrators had sunk home.

  When the interview was over, Henry stood up and stretched his arms toward the high ceiling to relieve the tension in his shoulders. “You’ve helped make history this morning,” he told Ned.

  “This morning? I don’t understand.”

  “Nowadays men don’t make history; the words printed about them do. Historians of the future will of necessity use today’s newspapers for their research.”

  Ned frowned. “I’ve read what’s been in the papers so far, and a lot of it simply isn’t true.”

  “How will they know, a hundred years from now?”

  “That’s a cynical remark, Henry.”

  “Is it? That’s why I write for the papers. To put our version of truth on record. I may not carry a rifle, but I can fight in my own way.”

  Ned gave him a thoughtful look. “And are there not men on the other side doing exactly the same thing? Is not their version of truth as real to them?”

  “Pádraic Pearse has taught you to be reflective, I see.”

  “Oh yes. He encourages us to question and argue. He says he doesn’t want us to be blindly indoctrinated by anybody, himself included. The important thing, he tells us over and over again, is to do our own thinking. Which reminds me; may I go into the city with you?”

  “I’d be glad of your company,” Henry replied, “and we can talk some more on the tram. But why are you going in? Shouldn’t think you’d want to see Dublin for a while.”

  “Remember the little girl I told you about? I want to find out how she is and if her mother’s been found.”

  “A woman was among those killed,” said Henry.

  “Bayonetted?”

  The journalist shook his head. “Shot. Besides, we’ve learned that she was the mother of a serving British soldier; how’s that for irony? Precious’s mother may be holed up somewhere badly injured, though. She might have no idea what’s happened to her child.” Henry began tucking his pencils into the pocket of his waistcoat. “There’s another possibility, Ned. The mother saw a nicely dressed young man rescue the child and had enough presence of mind to abandon her to him.”

  “I can’t believe that.”

  “You should. Children are frequently abandoned by parents who can’t support them anymore. Precious’s mother may have seen you as a heavensent opportunity to improve her daughter’s lot. An act of love, if you look at it that way.”

  “I can’t take a child, Henry!”

  “Would you like to?”

  “I have two little sisters myself whom I love very much. Thin and dirty as she was, Precious reminded me of our Eileen. The same fair hair, the same big eyes. But it’s out of the question, I’m just starting out myself; I’m not ready for responsibilities like that.” He hesitated. “What will happen to her, Henry? If she has been abandoned?”

  “She’ll be sent to an orphanage, probably the Orphan House For Destitute Females in the North Circular Road.1 Of course, there’s also the Protestant Orphan Society in Molesworth Street, which is better funded, but I’m sure the nuns would never send her there. The society would give her a very strict education in the Protestant faith and eventually put her out to work in a Protestant household.”

  “Precious deserves better than an orphanage!” Ned said indignantly. “That’s almost as bad as a workhouse.”

  Henry was amused. “I fail to see what you can do about it.”

  Ned said nothing more on the subject, but his cleft chin took on the stubborn jut his family knew so well.

  The two men took the tram into the city and parted company at Nelson’s Pillar. Ned went straight to Jervis Street, where Sister Concepta told him there were still no inquiries for Precious. “We can keep her until the end of the week because she has some congestion in her chest and an inflamed throat. But after that…” The nun shrugged regretfully.

  Ned found Precious in the children’s ward. Her tiny body was almost lost amid the rumpled sheets of an iron hospital bed. She was clean and her hair had been combed, but there was a hectic flush in her cheeks.

  He bent over the bed. “Do you know me, little one?”

  She put one thumb in her mouth and stared solemnly up at him. Ned tried to guess her age; four, perhaps. She looked younger because she was undersized.

  He smiled as encouragingly as he knew how. “Don’t be afraid. Everything’s all right now.”

  Precious removed the thumb from her mouth. “Mama?”

  Ned’s heart turned over. “Your mama isn’t here just now.” He bent down to stroke the hair back from her feverish forehead. She reached out and caught his hand with both of hers. “I want my Mama,” she said clearly. “Please?”

  Her hands were so hot. That was what hurt him most: her tiny hands were so hot.

  He left the hospital with tears in his eyes.

  His next visit was to Tom Clarke. The old Fenian was able to tell Ned, “All the Volunteers are accounted for. They took a few blows at Clontarf, but no one was killed, thank God.”

  “How did you and Seán MacDermott happen to arrive when you did?”

  “Pure chance. I have a second news agency in Amiens Street and my family lives above the shop. Our rooms afford a fine view of the road. Seán has no family in Dublin, so my wife often invites him to have dinner with us and our three boys on Sunday. We eat early because the children get hungry.

  “Before we sat down at table that day, I went into the street and engaged a cab to take us out to Howth afterwards to see how things were going. Then while we were eating Katty happened to glance out the window just as the Howth-bound tram went by.

  “When she said the tram was full of armed soldiers we abandoned our meal and ran for the street. Luckily our cab had just pull
ed up to wait for us. You know the rest. We brought some of the rifles to my place and went back for more, but we didn’t find them all by any means.

  “The next day a dozen Fianna showed up at Balally with another twenty.2 Constance Markievicz rents a country cottage there, a sort of personal hideaway, so they had come to ‘hide the guns away.’ They told her they had carried them off in the trek cart hidden under the batons. What about you, Ned? Do you still have your rifle?”

  “I’m afraid not. Seán Heuston and I hid ours in a shed a couple of hundred yards from the road.”

  “Did anyone see you?”

  “I can’t be sure.”

  “You’d better collect them then, and quickly. The Citizen Army’s searching for any guns that haven’t been recovered.”

  Ned was indignant. “They’re stealing our rifles?”

  “Rifles have no sense of ownership; they belong to the men who hold them. Connolly’s crowd have been drilling with hurley sticks; they’re desperate to get their hands on real weapons, even old Mausers that date to the Boer War. So on yer bike, lad,” Clarke added in Dublin slang.

  Ned took him literally. “I don’t have my bike with me; I came in by tram. After what’s happened I can’t very well go back to Rathfarnham on the tram with two illegal rifles on my lap.”

  “I’ll give you a roll of newspapers and a note for some friends who have a house in Fairview,” said Clarke. “Once you have your rifles, wrap them in the papers and take them there—it’s not a long walk. Follow the back roads and you won’t call any attention to yourself. I can collect the rifles later and hold them for you.”

  Ned hesitated. “Perhaps that’s not a good idea. You might be watched.”

  The old man’s eyes twinkled behind their spectacles. “If I can’t hide a couple more weapons without anyone knowing the better, I’m not the man I used to be. You’ll have your rifle. And by the way, the committee has come to a decision about the uniforms. The treasury can’t afford to supply them, but we have an official design selected. If you have someone who can make one for you, you’ll look a proper soldier.”

  A proper soldier. Ned wondered if Precious’s mother would have abandoned her child to a uniformed soldier.

  Ned was just about to leave the shop when Síle Duffy entered. Seeing him, she threw a startled glance at Clarke. The old man kept his face carefully blank.

  “I just came in for something to read,” Síle said.

  Ned observed, “It’s too early for the evening papers.”

  “Is it?” She gave a flustered little laugh. “I must have lost track of the time.” She flicked her eyes toward Tom Clarke again.

  “You can always come back later,” the shopkeeper assured her. “I know what you want; I’ll save them for you.”

  The two young people left the shop together and stood on the pavement outside, trying to think of things to say to one another.

  “What are you doing this afternoon, Síle?”

  “Nothing,” she answered quickly.

  “Then would you like to ride the tram out to Clontarf with me? There may be a bit of a walk after.”

  She smiled. “I don’t mind a bit of a walk. Sure, amn’t I a country girl?”

  Ned had dreaded returning to Clontarf alone, though he did not tell that to Síle. If he tried to explain she would laugh at him for being too sensitive, he thought. And perhaps he was.

  Long before the geopolitical concept of nationhood was established, Brian Boru had struggled to make Ireland one nation. He had undertaken the seemingly impossible task of peacefully assimilating the Viking invaders while uniting the contentious native tribes for the common good. And he almost succeeded. He almost made Ireland strong enough to resist any attempt at foreign domination.

  Then nine hundred years ago that dream had died with him at the Battle of Clontarf.

  To Ned Halloran, Clontarf represented the tragedy of lost possibilities. It was one place he never wanted to be…alone.

  WITH a roll of newspapers under one arm, Ned fumbled in his pocket for tuppence to pay their tram fare. When several of the male passengers stared at the girl he glared them down. Her features were striking but that was not her fault. Her clothing, though inexpensive, was not vulgar. He resented any man’s making assumptions about her which he refused to make himself.

  Ned guided her up the stair to the unroofed top section of the tram, where there were fewer passengers. He sat down beside her and watched the sun turn her hair to flame. The white lilac scent she wore filled his nostrils.

  They left the tram at the Clontarf stop and strolled down the road. The briars in the ditch on one side looked dusty. It was hard to believe an army had passed this way not long ago.

  Ned felt obliged to explain the reason for their journey, so he told Síle about the gunrunning incident and his part in it. Her attitude about the Volunteers proved different from Mary Cosgrave’s. “I’m proud of every one of you,” she said. “You’re actually doing something. Too many people complain about their lot without trying to change it. I did something myself; I know how hard it is.”

  “What did you do, Síle?”

  “You know.”

  “I do not know, that’s why I asked.”

  She stopped in the road and turned to look at him, searching his face with a strange desperation in her eyes. “I lay down in the hay with a cattle dealer who said he was coming up to Dublin. When he left Clare, I left with him.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  NED was ambushed by Síle’s honesty. He tried to think of a suitable response but could only stammer, “Why did you tell me that? I…I didn’t want to know.”

  “Dublin’s like a small town in some ways, Ned. Everyone knows everyone else, or knows someone who does. You would have found out about me eventually. It’s best sooner rather than later, that’s all. If you’re going to hate me I want to know now, I don’t want to be afraid it might fall on me when I least expect it.”

  “I don’t hate you, Síle. How could I?”

  “We’re still friends then, you and me?”

  “We are of course.”

  Some of the tension went out of her face. “I am glad, Ned. But I must tell you; what I did was no mistake. It got me to Dublin and I would do it again, so.”

  He stared at her aghast, his self-deception in ruins at his feet.

  Her mouth twisted. “How else could I get away before I turned into an old woman? You saw my mother. How old do you think she is?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Not twenty years more than me, but she looks like my grandmother. She’s worn out; she’ll die soon and she’s had no life at all. I couldn’t settle for that, Ned, like your Volunteers can’t settle for Ireland going on the way it is. Sometimes you just have to claw at the world, you know? You have to make things come right or die trying!

  “When we got to Dublin I left my cattle dealer and set out on my own, but I soon realized there was no future in being on the streets. If anything, my life was worse than it had been in Clare. So I went to Mrs. Drumgold and asked her to take me in. At first she refused. She said I was too common, but I convinced her I could learn. And I have, Ned. I have.”

  Ned had gazed at her wordlessly throughout this recital, but now he reached out and took her hand. Holding it tightly, he set off down the road again. Síle’s hand felt the same as before, but everything else had changed.

  Irish people were reticent to divulge anything of a personal nature. Yet Síle had entrusted Ned with a shocking revelation and obviously thought he would be man enough to understand. Would he? Could he?

  He chewed on his lip and kept his eyes on the road ahead of them.

  Síle walked beside him, astonished with herself. What devil had compelled her to be honest with this man when she lied so glibly to others? She desired Ned’s good opinion more than anything, and now…his silence was telling her more than words ever could.

  He did hate her. He was just too polite to say so.

 
So be it, Síle told herself, gritting her teeth. Life was hard, and the only way to get through it was to face things square. Even a girl who worked in a kip could have principles. Perhaps such a girl needed them more than most.

  When they came to the next bend in the road Ned said, “This is where we were stopped by the soldiers and the DMP. We hid our rifles behind that cottage back there.” He pointed toward a small house some distance from the road. “I’ll go, you stop here. In case anyone’s watching there’s no need for you to be implicated.”

  “Do you think I’m afraid of that?” she asked scornfully.

  It was his turn to search her face. “I don’t think you’re afraid of anything. You’re very brave. It must have taken great courage to tell me what you did.”

  Something twisted inside her. “Let’s collect those rifles.”

  They left the road together and made their way toward the cottage. When they were halfway there Ned realized Síle’s shoulders were shaking. He put one hand on her arm and turned her toward him. She felt wooden beneath his touch. Her face was impassive, but her eyes were glittering with tears.

  “Why are you crying?”

  “I’m not crying. I never cry,” she said as her eyes brimmed over.

  “You are. What have I done to hurt you?”

  “Nothing. How could you possibly hurt me? I won’t let any man do that. Is your rifle in that old shed I see over there?”

  He nodded, relieved that she had changed the subject. He had no idea how one dealt with a woman’s tears.

  When they reached the shed, Ned cast a nervous glance toward the cottage. This time no curtain moved. He ducked into the small timber outbuilding with Síle close behind him. He and Seán had buried their weapons in a hastily scooped-out shallow pit in the earth floor, then piled sacks of musty grain on top. Nothing appeared to have been disturbed.

  “Phew! The smell in here reminds me of the country,” Síle said, wrinkling her nose.