1916

by Morgan Llywelyn

  “When did you learn about that?”

  “Joe Plunkett sent us the message while he was in Berlin. You’ll be amused by the story, Ned. Apparently Joe issued two dispatches about the weapons, but only one got through. He wrote it in code on the flyleaf of Leland’s Italian Folk Tales, then sent the book through the German Foreign Office to his sister. The code took the form of a mock dedication in Latin.”

  “Very Joe Plunkett,” Ned remarked.

  For the first time, Pearse’s somber face lit with a smile. “Very.”

  As Ned pedaled back to the city, he found himself thinking in the way Pádraic Pearse had taught him to do. Looking at both sides of the issue, trying to be intellectually honest.

  According to Plunkett, Roger Casement believed Eoin MacNeill was in charge of the Irish Volunteers. MacNeill believed so himself. Yet the truth was, the IRB men were really running the show. Mr. Pearse spoke of moral rectitude while a deliberate deception was being practiced on Eoin MacNeill. Through the Brotherhood a tangled network now stretched from the shores of America to the battlefields of Europe. The network was concealed beneath the surface of the larger war.

  Across Europe strangers were hastening to slaughter one another, hastening to join the brotherhood of the dead.

  The dead who lay in rotting heaps on the battlefield, embracing their enemies.

  The dead who lay in neat rows in cemeteries, all enmity forgotten.

  Was that what waited in store for Ireland?

  Any good cause can be subverted for a wicked purpose.

  AT the next drill of the Dublin Brigade there were a number of new men. MacDonagh pointed them out to Ned. “Quite an increase in the ranks, eh? The IRB ordered all its members to join us. I’d pit our army against any now.”

  “I never thought of you as a violent person.”

  “I’m not. Tom Clarke’s the only real warrior amongst us. The leaders of the Irish Volunteers are mostly like myself, poets and professors. Thinkers, not fighters.”

  Ned rubbed his chin. “Yet what I see advancing toward us, step by step, is another war right here on Irish soil. Does it have to be that way?”

  MacDonagh’s cheerful expression faded. “I would give anything short of my immortal soul to have it otherwise, Ned,” he said soberly. “But we’ve been taught by England herself. She seized our land with sword and gun and has never respected anything else.

  “Time and again the gullible Irish have undertaken political negotiations with the British government in good faith, only to be deceived. The perpetual postponement of Home Rule is just the latest example. Even the most law-abiding people will resort to arms when they lose all faith in the political system. It’s as simple as that. And as terrible.”

  He reached into the pocket of his tunic and handed Ned a folded piece of paper. “Do you remember when my daughter was born, my little Barbara? I’ve just finished writing this poem for her.”

  Ned’s eyes ran down the neatly penned stanzas. Some he murmured aloud:

  You come in the day of destiny,

  Barbara, born to the air of Mars;

  The greater glory you shall see,

  And the greater peace, beyond these wars.

  For the old flags wave again, like trees:

  The forest will come with the timid things

  That are stronger than the dynasties,

  As your curls are stronger than iron rings.

  Be one with Nature, with that which begins,

  One with the fruitful power of God:

  A virtue clean among our sins,

  ’Mid the stones of our ruin a flowering rod.12

  Ned folded the paper and handed it back to MacDonagh. “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “What we’re doing is for the children, don’t you see? To give them a better future than any Irish person has had in eight hundred years.”

  “But is it not arrogant,” Ned argued, “to assume that one small group of men knows what’s best for the entire country?”

  “A small group always makes decisions for the majority,” MacDonagh pointed out. “They’re called the government. All we’re asking is the freedom to choose our own government and pass our own laws for the benefit of our own children.”

  On his next visit to Precious, Ned hugged the little girl so hard she fought free of his embrace. “Don’t do that!” she admonished. “You crush me.”

  “No one will ever crush you,” he told her passionately.

  THOUGH Paul O’Shaughnessy had been badly injured, he refused to press charges. In this, his bishop concurred. “You could only do damage by making this disgraceful business public,” he told the priest after Paul left the hospital. “I am assuming the accusation is a lie?”

  Paul hesitated. “I have never slept with the woman in question, Your Excellency.”

  The bishop fixed him with a hard blue stare. “Is that so. Is…that…so. Suppose I asked if you’ve ever touched her. Carnally, that is. What would you say then?”

  “Are you asking?”

  The stare was unwavering. “No. Father Paul, in my considered opinion, I think it might be best if you took a sabbatical. There comes a time in a priest’s life when he may need to take a long look at himself and his vocation in order to renew his commitment. Usually that happens somewhat later, in midlife, but in your case, a sabbatical now is very much called for.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “Perhaps you don’t, but I do. A complete change of scene would be best. Distance. Mmm, yes. Considerable distance.” The bishop spoke like a man thinking out loud. “Do I recall that you have family living in Ireland?”

  “Several cousins, though I’ve never seen them.”

  “Then I think it advisable that you visit them as soon as you are fit to travel. A sea voyage and, mmm, a year’s sabbatical will do you immense good.”

  Paul tried to argue, but it was no use. The vows he had taken gave the church absolute authority over his life.

  His fellow priests took over his duties while Paul was recuperating in the presbytery, and Mrs. Flanagan fussed over her patient like a hen with one chick. He felt smothered.

  He also felt as if he was being watched.

  At first it was no more than a vague disquiet caused by glimpsing disreputable-looking strangers loitering outside the house. But when he started going for short walks to build up his strength, he noticed that at least one of the men always kept him in sight.

  When he mentioned it to Mrs. Flanagan she said, “You’re imagining things, Father. You took a fearful crack on the head, you know. In my day we would have treated it with brown paper and vinegar, but these modern doctors…” She snorted contemptuously.

  When Paul asked her to carry a message to Mrs. Alexander Campbell, she refused. “Now Father, you don’t want to be bothering yourself with that. Leave her be.”

  “I won’t have you dictating to me, Mrs. Flanagan.”

  “It’s not me that’s dictating. The bishop himself told me you were not to get in touch with that woman. It’s for your own sake, Father. You’ll thank me some day.”

  Although he waited hopefully, Kathleen did not come to the presbytery to inquire about him. He could not imagine what she might have been told.

  Youth and strength were on his side, and his injuries healed fast. Soon he felt strong enough to walk the four blocks to her house. But the first time he made the attempt, two burly strangers fell into step behind him. When he crossed the street, they crossed too. When he speeded up and changed direction, they followed him.

  At last he turned back, afraid of what he might be leading to Kathleen.

  That same evening the bishop paid him a call. “God works in providential ways,” he told Paul as soon as Mrs. Flanagan had served them a glass of whiskey apiece and left the room. “You remember our conversation about a sabbatical in Ireland?”

  “I do, Your Excellency, and I wanted to talk with you about that. It really would be most inconven—”

  “On th
e contrary, it is highly opportune. Don’t you read the obituaries? A man known as Jeremiah O’Donovan Rossa died in this city on the twenty-ninth of June. He was an old Fenian, a hero to certain elements in the Irish community. John Devoy has been in touch with me about shipping the body back to Ireland for burial. Devoy’s requested a priest to accompany the widow and the remains, and your doctors assure me you’re up to the voyage if you take it easy. So pack your bags, Father. You sail on Thursday.”

  Chapter Thirty-four

  PAUL accepted the bishop’s arrangements fatalistically. In them was a circularity that appealed to his Celtic soul. He had warned Kathleen against consorting with Devoy and the Irish nationalists. Now for his sins he was being sent to Ireland, out of the reach of temptation.

  In a strange way he was relieved. God was taking the problem out of his hands. But he could not leave America for a year without seeing her one more time.

  During the summer a gardener came to the presbytery every Monday to tend the flower beds and the tiny patch of lawn. The man kept a stained gardening smock and wide-brimmed straw hat on a peg inside the back door. A battered wheelbarrow and various tools were in the carriage house at the rear of the property.

  On Tuesday, Paul waited until Mrs. Flanagan had gone out to do the shopping before he changed into his oldest shirt and trousers. He did not put on the Roman collar. Instead he donned the smock, pulled the hat down over his eyes, put the tools into the wheelbarrow, and wheeled them around to the front of the house. Instead of his normal walk he adopted an old man’s slouch.

  A surly-looking stranger was leaning against a lamppost across the street, watching the front door of the house. He paid no attention to the departing gardener as Paul pushed his barrow up the street and around the corner. Once out of sight the disguised priest parked the barrow and, straightening up, set off at a brisk walk.

  When he reached the Stewart house Kathleen answered the door herself. She went white when she saw him. “D-Della isn’t here, it’s her day off.”

  “I’m not here to call on your maid. May I come in?”

  For a moment he feared she would refuse him. Then she swung the door wide and stepped aside. “If you wish.”

  This time there was no offer of refreshments in the parlor. She seated herself on a chair across from him, her spine more rigid than corseting demanded.

  “I’ve wanted to come to you,” he began, “but it’s been impossible.”

  “For weeks, Paul? There’s another priest serving Mass at Saint Xavier’s, and no word from you.”

  “Please don’t judge me until you know the facts.”

  She kept her eyes downcast so he could not read the expression there. “I know you were attacked by hooligans and sent to the hospital. I called there to see you and was told no visitors were allowed. When I told Alexander where I’d been, he was furious with me. He said he knew about us and forbade me to go anywhere near the hospital, Paul. He intimated that he was responsible for what had happened to you.

  “I do think he might be capable of it, but I have no proof. He might simply have heard about the attack and decided to take credit for it to frighten me. I wouldn’t put it past him.” But she did not look frightened. She raised her chin; the stubborn Halloran cleft was clearly visible. Her eyes met his. “When I heard you’d been discharged, I went to the presbytery anyway. I couldn’t help myself, I had to. But Mrs. Flanagan told me you wouldn’t see visitors. I thought you wanted nothing more to do with me.”

  “That’s not true,” Paul protested. “I would never have treated you that way, breaking off without a word.”

  “I didn’t think so. But Alexander said…”

  Her beautiful eyes were filled with more distress than he could bear. “Perhaps it’s for the best, Kathleen,” he said gently. “It could only end in tears, and I would not hurt you for the world, I hope you know that. Nor do I want to break my vows. You must understand that about me, too. I meant them when I took them, I can’t throw all that away.”

  “I never asked you to,” she said in a whisper.

  “No, in all fairness you didn’t. Now, well, we’ve been given a breathing space. A chance to be apart from one another and let our emotions settle so we can think more clearly.”

  He told her then about the sabbatical.

  Kathleen sat with her hands folded in her lap; her eyes fixed on his. When he finished she said, “So that’s it? You’re just going to sail off to Ireland and leave me here?”

  “You make it sound as if I’m abandoning you and I’m not, I never would. But I must go. What else can I do, Kathleen!”

  “Stay here. For me; for us.”

  “And what about Alexander?”

  “People get divorces in America.”

  “You know divorce is prohibited to Catholics.”

  “Marriage is prohibited to priests,” she countered. “But if it were not for Alexander, would you marry me?”

  “Now you’re suggesting I leave the priesthood.”

  “I’m not suggesting anything. I’m simply asking. If you know the answer already, and it’s no, then there’s no need for you to go away. We can say good-bye here and now and I promise I shan’t trouble you further. I’ll go to a different church; you won’t even have to see me at Mass. If that’s what you want. Is it? Is it?”

  TO Paul’s relief, he and O’Donovan Rossa were not booked on a White Star liner. Instead they would travel on one of the smaller Cunard ships, the Laconia. The war had caused an inevitable disruption of sailing schedules as the large Atlantic liners were being returned to their home ports for refitting. Some would become troopships or hospital ships, others would transport armaments.

  The Laconia left New York at night with minimal lights showing, as secretive about her departure as anything so large could be. The old Fenian’s widow and his daughter Eileen stayed in their cabin, but Paul was on deck. He had hoped for a daylight view of the great city as seen from the harbor. The dazzle of its lights against the night sky was achingly beautiful, however, like a constellation from which he was being expelled against his will.

  The man next to him at the rail remarked, “Gorgeous, isn’t it? Makes one proud to be an American.”

  “Yes,” said Paul.

  “Wish Tillie—that’s my wife—could see this. But she’s in our cabin throwing up. Happens every voyage. But there you are, there’s no other way to get to London. Been going every summer for twenty years, we have. No point in breaking the habit now just because there’s a war on, eh?”

  “No point at all,” Paul agreed politely. He wanted to be left alone to concentrate on the sensation of leaving America. Physically leaving America. But the other man, almost invisible in the darkness, was lamentably talkative.

  “Was the Laconia your first choice? ’Twasn’t ours. Personally, we like the big ones better. Less sensation of being at sea, if you know what I mean. Folks like us, we only sail because there’s no other way to get across the Big Pond. You ever see the Mauretania? It’s a floating luxury hotel. You’d hardly know all that cold water was out there if you didn’t go on deck, and lots don’t. Be damned glad when this idiotic war’s over and the big liners come back.”

  Watching the lights of New York slip away to stern, Paul was mildly amused at a man who wanted to pretend he was not on a ship at all.

  A ship. On the ocean. With the night wind blowing, smelling of salt and emptiness.

  A ship transfixed between worlds, between America and Ireland.

  As Paul was transfixed between the priesthood and Kathleen.

  What do you want? she had asked.

  God help me, he thought. I don’t know. He leaned forward and put his head on the rail.

  His loquacious companion said, “No sea legs yet? It’ll be hell for three days, then you should be right as rain—unless you’re like my Tillie. I never get sick, got an iron belly. But I hate the Atlantic. Damn, I hate the Atlantic,” he repeated as the Laconia began to roll with the ocean swells.
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  That night, as he lay in his cabin fighting to keep down his dinner, Paul agreed.

  Sunrise dawned on a relatively calm sea. Paul felt better—until all passengers were called on deck for lifeboat drill. Those who neglected to appear wearing their life jackets were sent back for them. The ship’s officers were crisp and businesslike. “We’re beyond United States territorial waters now,” they announced, “which means we’re fair game for German U-boats. We don’t want to alarm you, but it’s best to be prepared.”

  At these words every passenger on the Laconia cast an apprehensive glance at the sea beyond the rail.

  Anything could lurk beneath that gently heaving surface.

  The only one on board who doesn’t need to worry is old O’Donovan Rossa, Paul thought with grim amusement.

  PÁDRAIC Pearse had been traveling around Ireland giving speech after speech. The subject was Irish independence, the subtext antirecruitment: “Do not fight for a foreign power when we need you for Ireland.” Sometimes his words were greeted enthusiastically, though in garrison towns like Limerick he was heckled and jeered by the families of British army men. Ned worried that Pearse would be arrested.

  Henry reassured him. “Dublin Castle still isn’t overly concerned about Mr. Pearse. They can have him arrested any time they like, but he’s a negligible threat compared to men like Tom Clarke and Seán MacDermott. Or James Connolly, for that matter. Connolly’s spread a banner across the front of Liberty Hall that says, “We serve neither King nor Kaiser, but Ireland.”

  “For Mr. Pearse’s sake,” Ned replied, “I hope the Castle keeps on underestimating him.”