1916

by Morgan Llywelyn

  “I’m not convinced that John Devoy thought it was a good idea, but when a man of Casement’s stature offered to help the cause he could hardly refuse. Sir Roger’s international reputation for courage and integrity is above question.

  “In the autumn Casement personally took the petition to Berlin. His mission had several purposes. The first was to secure an official statement of support for Irish independence from the German government. Second, he wanted to organize Irish-born prisoners of war—and there are quite a few of them among the British soldiers in German prison camps—into a brigade to fight for Irish freedom. The third purpose, of course, was to procure more arms for us.”

  Ned let out a low whistle.

  “It’s an extremely dangerous undertaking for a former British consul,” Plunkett went on, “and I confess I have misgivings. Other nations will always put their own national interest first; we should know that by now. Ireland has to learn to stand alone; that’s the essence of independence.

  “However, Casement’s been given permission to organize an Irish Brigade in the prison camps. The understanding is that if Germany wins her war, she will send them to us at her own expense as a gift for the Irish people, to help with our struggle for independence.

  “The Germans want to consult with a member of the IRB before any final arrangements are made. Since there’s a war on between Britain and Germany, we can hardly cable Berlin from Dublin. It means a personal trip, and I’m the obvious man to go. I speak several languages, and my health gives me a perfect excuse for leaving the country. My family will tell people I’ve gone to Jersey for a while. Word will filter back to Dublin Castle, and in case they’re watching me, they’ll think I’m safely out of the way and forget about me.

  “As a precaution I’m going to destroy all photographs of myself before I leave, and once out of Ireland I shall start growing a mustache. I plan to assume a false identity and travel by way of Spain and Italy.”10 Suddenly he gave Ned an astonishingly boyish wink. “I always did have a taste for cloak-and-dagger.”

  Ned smiled back. Like Tom Clarke, Joe Plunkett wore a mask. He was deeply devout and known for having a particular devotion to Saint John of the Cross.11 Of the three poets, he was the most otherworldly, the most mystical. Yet beneath his frail exterior was an individual of reckless courage and steely resolve.

  Before they parted Plunkett gave Ned notes to deliver to several members of the IRB. The last thing he said was, “I’m only sorry I shan’t be in Ireland for Easter. It’s my favorite time of year. The promise of the Resurrection.”

  HENRY Mooney never questioned Ned about his activities outside of the newspaper. But on several occasions Ned caught his friend watching him through narrowed eyes. Eventually he challenged, “What is it, Henry? Why are you looking at me that way?”

  “I was just thinking what a deep one you are. You once told me you’re not in the IRB and I believe you. But you certainly work hand and glove with them, don’t you?”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “I have my sources.”

  “Well, whatever you think you know, forget it.”

  “In your case I do, Ned,” Henry replied. “We’re friends, and more than that, we’re on the same side. I hope you know you can trust me.”

  What was that Henry had once said? Ned asked himself later. In a city awash with informers…

  Who could one trust?

  Chapter Thirty-one

  ALEXANDER Campbell was not a stupid man. The third time he heard his wife mention the priest in the same day he asked sharply, “When did you become so religious, Kate?”

  “I’ve always been a devout Catholic; you knew that when you married me.”

  “Not so devout that you’d refuse to marry a Protestant once you were in America. And not so devout that you went to Mass every morning—until recently. Now it’s Father Paul says this, and Father Paul thinks that, and Father Paul needs you at Saint Xavier’s to arrange flowers and decant incense.”

  Kathleen laughed. “Oh, Alexander, one doesn’t decant incense!” But her laughter was forced and her eyes were wary.

  HE came to her in the afternoons while Alexander was at work. After the first week he did not visit her every day. Her bruises had faded by then, and neither of them could maintain the pretense that he was ministering to an injured parishioner.

  Once or twice a week Della would meet him at the door, let him in, and serve afternoon coffee and cake to the pair of them in unconscious imitation of Mrs. Flanagan at the presbytery. Then she would put on her battered straw hat, wish them good-day, and leave. Once or twice a week—through the autumn, the winter, the spring.

  HE sat beside her on the couch and held her. Held her; stroked her hair. Kissed her eyelids.

  “In the beginning I truly believed I loved Alexander,” Kathleen said. “But what did I know? I’d never been with a man. And he wasn’t just any man; he was new and different and…and American. He was electric lights and Fifth Avenue and strawberries out of season. I thought I loved him.”

  “I know,” he whispered into her hair. “I know.”

  Paul O’Shaughnessy did not want to hate any man, but he hated Alexander Campbell for brutalizing this woman.

  The ordeal she had undergone placed an added constraint upon him. As her priest he would be violating his vows if he touched her carnally; as a man he would be adding to the physical insult she already had suffered. Or so he thought. Until the day she caught his hand and gently laid it upon the swell of her breast.

  Autumn into winter, winter into spring.

  When Father Paul returned to the presbytery from his afternoons with Kathleen, Mrs. Flanagan always knew where he had been. He was not a man who could mask his feelings. His Irish-blue eyes were brimming with pain and guilt, yet there was a strange sort of radiance about him, too—the look of a man who has briefly touched magic.

  Magic had no part in Mrs. Flanagan’s theology.

  She tried everything she could think of to save him. She larded her conversation with constant veiled references to the dangers of temptation and brazen hussies, until eventually he lost his temper. “Mrs. Flanagan, you are worse than a fire-and-brimstone revivalist. I assure you I am perfectly aware of the evils of this world—I hear about them in the confessional every day. If you don’t mind, I would prefer not to be reminded of them in my own house.”

  Kathleen Campbell had ceased visiting the presbytery. Whenever Mrs. Flanagan saw her at Mass, she tried to catch the young woman’s eye and give her a hard look. A creature of any sensitivity would have understood and been chastened.

  But it would take more than a housekeeper’s disapproval to discourage Kathleen.

  Discouraging gossip was just as difficult. Among the domestics of the neighborhood, Bridie’s spiteful tongue had done its work. They all knew. It was obvious his visits were timed to coincide with the maid’s departure and to have him out of the house before Alexander Campbell returned home at the end of the day. Parlormaids claimed they “could set the hall clock by Father Paul passing.”

  But as the months went by, newer, fresher scandal caught their attention. This was New York; there was no shortage of delicious gossip provided by its most respectable citizens. The priest’s relationship became old news, accepted if not condoned—except by Mrs. Flanagan.

  She was angry that Mr. Campbell seemed to be ignoring the situation. Why did he not take his young wife in hand; that would solve the problem. Surely he knew.

  Or did he?

  WITH the outbreak of war in Europe, the pace of Alexander Campbell’s life had grown hectic. Although President Wilson was determined to maintain American neutrality, any threat to shipping on the world’s oceans had to be taken with the utmost seriousness. There were urgent meetings almost daily in the White Star offices.

  Meanwhile, other shipping companies were doing what they could to protect their vessels. Alexander Campbell was assigned to serve as liaison between White Star and the British-owned Cunard
Company. The two firms were great rivals, but war made them allies against the menace of German submarines. Charles Sumner, Cunard’s New York manager, began inviting Alexander out to his Long Island home for long weekend discussions.

  The Freemasons were not idle, either. As war convulsed Europe, the interests of the international brotherhood were unavoidably involved. American Masons were called upon to write letters, send cables, transfer funds, and organize protective structures for colleagues abroad. A member well placed in the shipping industry was endlessly useful.

  Alexander Campbell was rarely home in the spring of 1915.

  May 8, 1915

  CUNARD LINER LUSITANIA TORPEDOED

  OFF IRISH COAST

  Chapter Thirty-two

  PAUL told Kathleen, “The priesthood was my mother’s vocation, not mine. I was the youngest, her gift to God. She thought she was doing me a favor. How could she have known about you? How could either of us have known about you?”

  “What are we going to do, Paul?”

  “I don’t know. I honest-to-God do not know. I never expected this.”

  Kathleen gestured toward the newspaper lying on the table. The headlines shrieked of the Lusitania tragedy. Fourteen hundred people were reported dead. Among them were 128 American citizens, including the fabulously wealthy Alfred Vanderbilt. “Vanderbilt didn’t expect what happened to him, either,” she commented. “He probably sailed through life thinking he was in control, then all at once…”

  “Yes. All at once.”

  ALTHOUGH Alexander suspected his wife was infatuated with Father Paul, he did not think she was unfaithful. From his own experience he knew she was not a sensual woman. And, of course, she was Catholic, and the Catholics looked upon their priests as saints rather than men.

  Masons were encouraged to confide in one another to tighten the bonds of brotherhood, so Alexander mentioned the situation to the Grand Master of his lodge, including a delicate reference to Kathleen’s disinterest in sex. “Under the circumstances I would see that as a virtue,” the man replied. “Your wife is suffering a variant of papist idolatry, Sandy. If you don’t make an issue of it, she’s not likely to allow the relationship to go any farther. It’s just the pastime of a bored woman. They all have them, I assure you, and many are much worse.”

  Alexander was reassured. As long as Kathleen did not betray him physically, the marriage was not threatened. When he had the time he would give her more of what she so obviously needed: a strong husband who would tolerate no foolishness. Then there would be babies to keep her busy and she would forget about priests and piety.

  He was unprepared for the shock he received one Sunday afternoon in May. He was returning home from Long Island, and had just stepped out of a cab in front of his house when an elderly woman in a black dress and bonnet confronted him on the sidewalk.

  “Are you Mr. Campbell?”

  “I am, madam. How may I help you?”

  “I’m not one to gossip, but…”

  “Neither am I,” he said shortly. “If that’s all, I hope you will excuse me?” He lifted his hat and started to pass by her, but she took a step sideways and stationed herself in front of him again.

  “You must listen to me.” Her eyes were darting from side to side as if she was afraid of being overheard. “There’s something you should know. Not to help me, but someone else.”

  “Tell me then if you must, but make it quick. My wife is expecting me.”

  “Is she?” Mrs. Flanagan peered up into his face. “Is she indeed?”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  Mrs. Flanagan clenched her fists against the sides of her skirt. Never in her life had she done anything like this. She had no way of predicting how this stern, rather intimidating man would react when she said, “Your wife is breaking God’s law.”

  Alexander stared at her. “What?”

  It was hard to shape the words. Fear and anger combined to make her lips tremble. “Thou shalt not commit adultery. Your wife is.”

  “What?” he repeated numbly.

  “Committing adultery. With a priest. I’m his housekeeper and I know. You have to stop her. She’s endangering his immortal soul!”

  A small dead boy from the Lusitania was found washed up on a beach in southern Ireland. He was still wearing his blue Little Lord Fauntleroy suit when members of the Royal Irish Constabulary photographed the body. The Independent obtained a copy of the picture, but to protect public sensibilities decided not to print it.

  The staff of the paper gathered around the editor’s desk to stare down at the grainy photograph.

  “Those bastards. Those bloody bastards!” A reporter slammed his fist against the nearest wall. Another was weeping.

  Ned took one look and turned away.

  The Lusitania disaster had brought back terrible memories, but the pitiful little corpse made them worse. Lying on the sand with its head pillowed on one arm, it could have been any child fast asleep.

  It could have been Precious.

  After work Ned called in at Gill’s Confectioners, the sweets shop in Middle Gardiner Street not far from Mrs. Kearney’s.

  As always, the fragrance wafting from the ground-floor windows of number 33 made his mouth water. He lost himself amid tall glass jars brimming with bulls’ eyes, anise seed balls, jellybabies, and licorice allsorts. For a time he was tempted by blocks of sticky Yellow Man, but eventually chose a dozen chocolate mice—for Precious.

  The following Sunday, Mary Cosgrave allowed Ned to escort her to Saint Saviour’s in Dominick Street. He was aware of the importance of the gesture. Attending Mass with her formalized their relationship; made them a couple.

  Kneeling beside her, he was more conscious of her beauty than of the fine marble altar and justly famed reredos. In this setting it was easy to imagine Mary in a virginal white dress, with wax orange blossoms holding her veil. The Nuptial Mass, the beaming relatives, the proper conclusion to a proper courtship.

  With a demure gesture she removed her little kidskin gloves before saying the rosary. Ned was enchanted. When the rosary was concluded he reached out shyly and put his hand over hers.

  She peeped at him sidewise from beneath her eyelashes.

  Abashed, he took his hand away. But she smiled. All was forgiven.

  He could feel his heart hammering.

  Mary, Mary. Hail Mary, full of grace.

  Emerging from the church after Mass, they were greeted by a cloudless May sky, a burning blue as intoxicating as liquor. Massgoers stopped on the steps to chat with the priest. When it was Ned’s turn, the priest shook his hand like a benediction.

  “What shall we do now?” he asked Mary as they went down the steps together.

  “I’m hungry,” she confessed with a giggle. “Fasting before Mass always makes me ravenous. I sat through the entire sermon thinking of food instead of God.”

  He loved her for her human frailty. “There aren’t many places open on Sunday, I’m afraid.”

  “I know the perfect one—the XL Café and Restaurant in Grafton Street. They serve a lovely lunch. It’s a bit of a walk, but very nice.”

  As Ned had learned, Mary’s definition of nice was synonymous with expensive. By the time they reached the XL Café he was famished, but he prudently limited his meal to a cup of oxtail soup.

  Mary ordered soup, Dublin Bay prawns with a side salad and potato cakes, and rice pudding with almond biscuits. She ate heartily, then complained about the damage she had done to her tiny, tightly corseted waist.

  Ned assured her, “There’s no cause for worry.”

  “But are my arms not too plump?”

  “They’re perfect. Just perfect.”

  “Are you sure? Sometimes I look in the mirror and think they’re just a bit too full…just here…” She pushed up her sleeve and extended a rounded white arm for his inspection. He pronounced it exquisite. Smiling, she ate another biscuit.

  When the young couple left the restaurant they found themselve
s caught up in a river of people. Dubliners of every social class were making their way to Stephen’s Green for the traditional Sunday stroll and free music, so Ned and Mary joined them. The day took on a festive air.

  At the entrance to the park an imposing stone archway had been erected in memory of the men of the Royal Dublin Fusiliers who had fallen in the Boer War.

  Beyond the arch, neatly raked gravel paths bordered a meandering lake. Sunlight streamed through a canopy of leaves; the air was fragrant with flowers. Children laughed and played and fed the ducks. Adults sauntered across the grass or sat on wooden benches and chatted with friends and strangers. Lovely, leisurely Sunday.

  On a little humpbacked bridge Mary paused to admire a flotilla of swans with their cygnets, while Ned leaned his elbows on the stone parapet and admired her profile in the leaf-dappled light. He gave a sigh of contentment. Sunday with Mary.

  “What are you thinking about?” she asked. “Me?”

  He smiled at her. “Mary dear.”

  She smiled back and linked her arm through his. They strolled on together.

  In the octagonal bandstand across the Green a British army band was striking up—minus the customary Germanic oom-pah-pah of the tuba. The triumphal strains of “Hail, Britannia, Britannia Rules the Waves” soon thundered through the park.

  Mary tugged at Ned’s arm. “Let’s go over there. I do so love a band.”

  But he was listening to a different music. In his memory the Volunteers were singing “For God and Ireland” on their way to Howth.

  “That isn’t my army,” he said abruptly. He turned his back on the bandstand.

  Mary tightened her grip on his arm. “Where are you going? I want to listen to them.”

  He turned to face her. “I don’t. I told you, that isn’t my army.”