1916

by Morgan Llywelyn

  Redmond urges us to lay down our lives on behalf of a foreign power whose policy toward Ireland has been one of unremitting contempt—the guilty hatred of the conqueror for the conquered. England justifies her behavior by depicting the Irish as ignorant, impoverished barbarians. We are ignorant because educating ourselves was, until recent times, against English law. We are impoverished because the natural resources of this island have been thoroughly looted. As for being barbarians, it was Ireland which kept the lamp of literacy alight when the Dark Ages descended on the rest of Europe—England included.

  While going through the archives of the Independent I accidentally found a quote from the London Times during the Famine years. Only sixty years ago that paper positively exulted, “They are going! They are going! The Irish are going with a vengeance. Soon a Celt will be as rare in Ireland as a Red Indian on the shores of Manhattan. Law has ridden through Ireland; it has been taught with bayonets, and interpreted with ruin. Townships leveled with the ground, straggling columns of exiles, workhouses multiplied and still crowded, express the determination of the legislature to rescue Ireland from its slovenly old barbarism, and to plant there the institutions of this more civilized land.”3

  That was how Britain looked upon us then; how the British government still looks upon us. Nothing’s changed. Yet they expect us to be willing cannon fodder for them. Think of the Irish Brigade they sent to die in the Boer War. In spite of all the fancy slogans, those men were sacrificed just to help the empire seize more territory. The same thing was done in South Africa as had once been done to Ireland.

  Oh, Caitlín, we must have our independence. Ireland must be free of imperialism once and for all.

  He showed Henry the letter before he sent it. The journalist’s comment was, “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! It’s good writing but those are strong words, Ned. You better hope that letter doesn’t fall into the wrong hands.”

  “Are you implying the post isn’t safe?”

  “I’m just saying be careful.”

  “John Redmond wasn’t careful in his speech.”

  “He doesn’t have to worry. He was promoting imperial policy.”

  Ned shook his head. “I’ll never understand why.”

  “You’re still young; everything is black and white for you. Age and experience will knock that out of you and eventually you’ll see there are only shades of gray. In the meantime let me tell you something. John Redmond believes as firmly in the rightness of his point of view as you do in yours.

  “I know Redmond’s very anglicized, yet consider how many Irish people have adopted the manners and customs of England. Just listen to yourself; thanks to your education you’re now speaking with an accent that owes almost as much to London as to Clare.

  “Don’t scowl at me like that, Ned, I’m not saying it’s wrong. I’m saying it was inevitable.

  “For centuries we had it hammered into us that everything English was better than anything Irish. When their own self-esteem was destroyed some people began imitating their conquerors. Don’t be too hasty to condemn Redmond and men like him; they’re the product of history. But they’re still Irish for all of that. Remember, John Redmond was one of Charles Parnell’s strongest supporters when the church turned against him over the Kitty O’Shea affair. I’m convinced he believes he’s doing what’s best for Ireland now.”

  “Surely you don’t agree with him, Henry!”

  “You’re right, I don’t. But I’m not going to launch an attack against the leader of the Parliamentary Party in the pages of the Independent.”

  “You’re letting the imposition of censorship intimidate you,” Ned accused.

  Henry looked hurt. “I prefer to think of it as being prudent. Let me give you some information you may not know. According to my sources, the Castle’s compiling dossiers on every member of the IRB in Ireland. And I suspect they’re not the only ones being watched. We all have to be careful these days.”

  Ned set his jaw at a stubborn angle—and sent the letter.

  “INDEPENDENCE!” Kathleen exclaimed when she read what he had written. The word was like a knife in her heart. She crumpled the letter into a ball of paper and threw it as hard as she could.

  NOW that he had his own income, Ned set about creating his own life. The school year was starting again, but his days as a pupil were over; it was time to leave Saint Enda’s for the larger world. When he told Henry he was looking for a place to live in the city, the journalist said, “You’re welcome to share my digs at number sixteen if you like. I have only the one room, but it’s quite large. There’s plenty of space for two beds, and we can bring in another wardrobe for you.”

  “I don’t have that many clothes. Mostly I need space for my books. But are you sure Mrs. Kearney won’t object to me moving in?”

  “Louise? She’ll be delighted to have another bachelor with tidy habits. You are tidy, I trust?”

  “Mr. Pearse insisted on it.”

  “Good. I warn you, Louise may raise the rent a wee bit, but you’ll still be paying less than anywhere else because we’ll split it. And as an added inducement there’s a grand big bathtub on the third floor.”

  “Done!” said Ned.

  Living in Dublin was exciting. At first he did not miss the deep silences of rural Rathfarnham or the pleasures of lying abed in the early morning with the windows open, listening to the dawn chorus of thrush and lark and blackbird. The myriad voices of a living city were a novel sensation. Besides, the Orphan House for Destitute Females in the North Circular Road was not so far away.

  Ned visited Precious as often as he could. Usually this meant early mornings before he went to work. Foregoing breakfast, he would hurry to the orphanage and be waiting when the doors were unlocked. The matron always looked surprised to see him, but Precious was not surprised. After his second or third dawn visit she expected him and would be waiting to run into his arms: “NedNedNedNed!” When he lifted her up and swung her around her small face lit with joy.

  Precious.

  She was but one of his commitments. In order to keep carrying messages for Pearse and the Volunteers, Ned had to have access to swift communication. The newspaper had telephones, but they were not for the use of a lowly copyboy. Fortunately a public call box had been set up outside Gills’ Confectioners in Middle Gardiner Street. From this box, Ned rang each morning to a similar call box in Rathfarnham, where, at a preappointed time, one of the Saint Enda’s Fianna was waiting. Sometimes he made a second phone call to Larkfield, the Plunkett estate on the Kimmage Road. Count Plunkett had been one of the first private citizens in Ireland to have a telephone installed in his home.

  Evenings after work would find him on his bicycle, whistling Irish tunes as he rode a circuit through Dublin and its environs. He sometimes thought wistfully of lazy mornings spent listening to the dawn chorus.

  When he received his second pay packet—the first having gone toward his rent and to put a few pennies into a jam jar, for savings—he called upon Mary Cosgrave. It was Sunday afternoon, golden with autumn. Ned wore his best clothes and the most sober expression he could manage. To his relief her father did not refer to their previous encounter, but kept him company in the parlor until Mary came down.

  She was dressed in a dainty blue frock that complimented her rosy cheeks. Ned had scrubbed himself raw in the big claw-footed tub on the third floor and liberally applied Henry’s bay rum lotion, but he felt grubby by comparison.

  “Where are we going?” she asked as she pirouetted for his inspection. “The cinema?”

  Ned hesitated. Now that he was supporting himself he had less pocket money than when he was a student at Saint Enda’s. In Clare it was traditional to take a girl “walking out,” which cost no money at all. In fact, it had a romantic connotation. A couple might be “walking out” for years without making any public announcement, but everyone understood they were almost betrothed.

  Mary Cosgrave was a Dublin girl, however, and entertaining a girl in Dubli
n could be expensive. The Antient Concert Rooms in Great Brunswick Street presented the sort of performances popular with fashionable society, and the rebuilt Theatre Royal had even presented Wagnerian opera. There were other theaters, including the Abbey and the Gaiety, music halls, and a number of cinemas. The motion picture had been introduced to Ireland only a dozen years before, but already Dublin was becoming a city of picture palaces.

  Even two cinema tickets were more than Ned could afford at the moment, however. “How about a stroll?” he suggested. “It’s a fine afternoon, it would be a great pity to stay inside.”

  “We went for a walk the last time we were together. I hoped we might do something different today.”

  He swallowed hard. “We can go to the cinema if that’s what you want.”

  Mary rewarded him with a radiant smile. As they started out the door she said unexpectedly, “We must collect Eliza and bring her with us. She loves the cinema. You won’t mind, will you?”

  “Of course not,” he lied.

  And there must be refreshments after the cinema, Mary airily informed Ned. “I want Eliza to see how generous you are with me.”

  He forced a gallant smile. “Whatever I have is yours.”

  Ned sat between two girls in the O’Connell Street Picture House and tried to concentrate on the jerky black-and-white figures flickering on the screen while Mary and Eliza leaned across him to talk to each other. He was uncomfortably aware of their bodies.

  Flesh. Soft and yielding flesh. Welcoming thighs; enveloping heat. Sweet intense agony of…

  Inept policeman chasing equally inept bank robbers. Guns exploding with great discharges of smoke, men taking pratfalls, motorcars careering down American streets while doors fell off. Ned made himself laugh when the rest of the audience laughed.

  Afterward they lingered over hot chocolate and fairy cakes in Robert Roberts in Grafton Street. While Ned mentally counted the coins he had left, Eliza brought up the subject of her own poverty. “Switzer’s has declared a twenty percent pay reduction for its clerks,” she moaned. “They’re blaming the war, saying trade has fallen off because prices are going up.”

  Ned turned toward her. “Is that true?”

  “It is true, but people still have to buy clothes and dishes, don’t they? I think management is taking advantage of us and I’m going to ask the Drapers’ Assistants’ Association to do something.”

  “Like what?”

  “Call out a strike. It’s worked for the other trade unions, why not for us?”

  Mary was horrified. “You can’t be serious! What if the other shops got involved? We could all be fired. I don’t have any argument with Brown Thomas, and I don’t see why my job should be put at risk.”

  “Well, perhaps not a strike. But at least we could have the Association write Switzer’s an angry letter. What do you think, Ned?”

  “I think it’s a good idea. You should support your friend, Mary. There’s strength in unity.”

  Eliza turned to Ned. “Exactly. Have you heard James Connolly speak?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Oh but you must! He says what you just did. And he’s a grand bull of a man; when he’s talking you feel he could do anything.” A sudden intensity focused her as if a burning-glass had been turned upon her personality. Her drab little face lit with enthusiasm.

  “Connolly’s nothing but a socialist,” Mary said petulantly. “My mother says socialists want to take the money away from everyone who has any. I think that’s stupid. Where would the jobs come from if there were no rich people anymore? We would all be dreadfully poor then, and no one would have any nice things.”

  Ned couldn’t help laughing. “I don’t think you’ve quite grasped the principles of socialism, Mary.”

  “I don’t care. It’s tiresome.”

  To Ned’s surprise, Eliza said, “That’s the trouble with you, Mary Cosgrave. You aren’t interested in ideas, only in things.”

  Mary was helping herself to Ned’s uneaten cake. “Nice things are important. Take clothes for instance. When I’m well turned out I feel better. You like pretty clothes yourself, Eliza Goggins, don’t pretend with me.”

  The permanently red tip of Eliza’s nose twitched. “I do, of course, but there are larger issues. I think—”

  “Oh, we know what you think. You want us to march about waving trade union placards and looking as dowdy as suffragettes. Sometimes you can be a dreadful bore, Eliza. Don’t you think so, Ned?” She flashed him a coquettish smile.

  But Ned was looking at Eliza. Plain, unappealing Eliza—coming to life before his eyes with the burgeoning of a new faith.

  Chapter Thirty

  THE Woodenbridge speech had far-reaching consequences. The next meeting of the Volunteers’ governing board was on the night of September 24, and a violent argument broke out almost at once. The IRB men on the board were furious that, without prior consultation, Redmond had pledged the Irish National Volunteers to support Britain’s war. Seán MacDermott cried, “Asquith dangled Home Rule in front of him as a bribe to buy the Volunteers with and he was fool enough to take it! Have we not learned the hard way that we can’t trust Parliament?”

  Even Eoin MacNeill thought Redmond had made a bad mistake. “Home Rule is a check the British will continually postdate,” he said.

  By the end of the meeting there was an irreconcilable split between the Redmondites and the republicans. Bulmer Hobson took Redmond’s side; Tom Clarke announced he would never speak to Hobson again.1 “How much did the British pay you?” he asked Hobson savagely.

  Most of the original members of the committee signed a statement to the effect that they no longer considered Redmond’s nominees as part of the governing body. As a result, two separate branches of the Volunteers developed. Those who agreed with Redmond chose to call themselves the National Volunteer Corps, and set up their own executive committee.

  Meanwhile, the more militant republicans assumed the title Irish Volunteers, and set up headquarters at number 2, Dawson Street.2 Eoin MacNeill continued to serve as President and Chief of Staff, chairing meetings of the Provisional Committee and overseeing policy. MacNeill was not a revolutionary; his goal was to build the Volunteers into a force capable of defending Ireland.

  But there was another layer of leadership now. The IRB men on the Provisional Committee were quietly making their own plans.

  THROUGH his increasing circle of contacts, Ned was aware of the power struggles taking place within the nationalist movement. The split in the Volunteers was but one example. The romantic Erin of Yeats and Synge and Lady Gregory was a far cry from Connolly’s vision of a modern socialist state. Sinn Féin as conceived by Arthur Griffith did not subscribe to the physical force doctrine of the Fenians. Even as the nationalists planned to disentangle Ireland from England, Irish men conspired against one another in hopes of shaping the fledgling nation to their particular dream.

  Meanwhile, Carson’s Unionist Party sought to enlarge Protestant privilege through the political arena, Redmondites put their faith in Home Rule and in remaining part of the empire, and the plain people of Ireland struggled from day to day to keep food on the table and a roof over their heads.

  From a seething cauldron of passion and frustration and hope, something was bound to be born.

  AUTUMN passed into winter. For days at a time the sky was overcast, sea and cloud melding on the horizon into icy gray. Rain swept across Ireland, dragging cold mud on the hem of her skirts.

  The weather meant agony for Joe Plunkett, yet he valiantly attended meetings of both the Irish Volunteers and the IRB and was frequently seen around the city. One bitter November night Ned happened to glimpse him crossing Prince’s Street swathed in a greatcoat and bent double against the wind. His body was wracked with coughing.

  Ned hurriedly caught up with him and urged him into the lobby of the Hotel Metropole. “You shouldn’t be walking on a night like this. Where’s your motorcar?”

  In the light of the elect
ric chandeliers Plunkett’s face was livid, but he smiled and slapped at the pockets of his coat as if searching for something. “Motorcar? I must have misplaced it. You know how easy it is to forget where you leave those things.”

  “Sit down and let me bring you a hot whiskey from the bar. Then I’ll get a cab for you.”

  Plunkett waved one ring-laden hand. “Not yet, Ned, please. I’ll go home in a while and let them fuss over me. In the meantime, stop with me for a few minutes, can you? And I wouldn’t say no to that hot whiskey. Here, wait a minute.” He took out a pigskin wallet and selected a banknote. “Order one for yourself and let me pay for both of them. That way I won’t have to drink alone.”

  “I couldn’t let you—”

  “I insist.”

  They took their whiskey to a dim corner of the lobby and sat across from each other at a small table. At first Plunkett scarcely seemed able to lift his glass. But as the warmth and the whiskey seeped into him, he straightened up and insisted on ordering another round. With the second drink a little color began to creep into his cheeks. He caught Ned watching him.

  “Don’t look so worried, Ned. I’m all right, truly I am. My little walk was just an impulse. Bit of fresh air to clear the head.”

  “You shouldn’t be out in this weather.”

  “I do a lot of things I shouldn’t. If I give in to the illness, it’s won.”

  Emboldened by the whiskey, Ned asked, “Your illness…is it very serious?”

  “It’s glandular tuberculosis of the throat. That’s always serious. If you mean am I going to die—I am. We all are, you know; someday. But right now I stay busy living. This evening, for example, I enjoyed a play at the new Irish Theatre in Hardwicke Street. I helped Edward Martyn found that theater, so I go to every performance I can. And I love exploring the beauties of the Irish countryside, no matter what the weather. You can live outside yourself and your infirmities if you put your mind to it, Ned. If you have enough faith. Faith supports you when nothing else will.”