1916

by Morgan Llywelyn

  “Don’t worry. I shan’t tell them any different.”

  When Pearse summoned Ned to meet him at Eamonn Ceannt’s house in July, the strain of his efforts was showing in his face, but his spirits were high. “You know about O’Donovan Rossa’s death, of course?”

  “I do,” Ned replied. “We covered it in the Independent, though it wasn’t as big a news item as the war—or the parties the new viceroy’s giving.”

  “Well, here is something I promise will become very big news: Clan na Gael is sending Rossa’s body home for burial with full military honors.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “I am. We shall lay him to rest in Glasnevin Cemetery on the first of August, the Celtic festival of Lughnasa. We hope to have a lying-in-state for him, then a procession through the city to the cemetery. The Irish Volunteers, the Irish Citizen Army, the Fianna, and members of the Irish Republican Brotherhood will attend the ceremony.”

  Ned recognized the plan for what it was: the most audacious propaganda exercise the republicans had yet undertaken.

  “Tom Clarke has asked me to deliver the funeral oration,” Pearse subsequently told him, “so I’m going down to Connemara to work on it. Willie and Des Ryan will accompany me. I have some other writings I need to finish while I’m there, too.” He paused, then added, “I may never have the chance again.”

  Tom Clarke and Thomas MacDonagh were organizing the funeral. Ned’s assignment was the daily delivery of updated instructions to the numerous people involved. This meant giving up, for a time, his mornings with Precious and Síle.

  Síle was understanding when he explained to her, but Precious was less sanguine. “Ned-Ned, why can’t you come see me for just a little while?”

  “I will soon, Precious, but not for the next few days. I have more to do than there are hours to do it in.”

  “I don’t have anything to do,” the child responded dolefully.

  “Of course you do! You have toys to play with. I know, I’ve bought them for you. And you have friends…”

  “Don’t have friends,” she interrupted. “The other children don’t like me very much.”

  Ned was astonished. How could anyone fail to love her? “Why do they not like you?”

  “They say I talk fancy. But I don’t. I’m just learning lots of words so I can sound like you!” she finished triumphantly.

  Ned stared at her in wonderment, suddenly understanding. This tiny mite, this abandoned scrap of humanity, was intelligent, with a hungry mind like his own.

  He felt a burgeoning sense of pride in Precious. The future would have to be better…for her sake.

  As the date set for the Rossa funeral approached, Ned was on his bicycle at first light every day, dashing about the city and its outskirts. He only finished in time to race in to work, sweaty and disheveled.

  “What are you up to?” Henry asked him—but only once.

  Ned shrugged. “Working all the hours God sends, same as always.”

  That same evening he noticed a member of the DMP standing across the street, openly watching Clarke’s shop.

  Clarke laughed it off. “Dublin Castle has someone out there every day now. Mostly what they get is rain down the backs of their necks. A lad yesterday took a bad chill, so I fetched him in here and gave him a drop of hot whiskey before he went back to his post.”

  “Does it not make you nervous, being watched?”

  “It doesn’t take a feather out of me, Ned. After so many years of British surveillance I’d take it as an insult if they stopped. They’d be saying ‘You’re too old, Clarke; we don’t think you’re dangerous anymore.’”

  Ned gave him a note from Thomas MacDonagh. Clarke read swiftly, scribbled something at the bottom, then tucked the single sheet between the pages of the latest edition of the Freeman’s Journal and handed the newspaper to Ned. “Take this back to him, will you?”

  “How do you like working with Professor MacDonagh?”

  “I’m glad of the chance to get to know him better. I don’t have a lot in common with bookish people, but he strikes me as a decent fellow, straight and clear in thought and action. When the time comes…” Clarke left the thought hanging in the air. “Now run along,” he said briskly. “Why are you still standing there?”

  “I just wanted to ask if you’d heard anything from Connemara.”

  “You miss Pat, don’t you?”

  “I suppose I do.”

  “He has work to do, same as the rest of us. And what he does, no one else can. Before he left he asked my advice about how far to go with his speech, and my instructions to him were, ‘Make it as hot as hell, throw discretion to the winds.’”2 Fiery young eyes flashed in Tom Clarke’s old face. “Did you know the IRB’s persuaded James Connolly to write an article about O’Donovan Rossa? It’s to be in the program we’ll hand out at Glasnevin.”

  “That’s grand news. Does it mean Connolly’s finally committed to the IRB?”

  “Not yet. He has his own plans for revolution; he wants to create a socialist state for the workers. He’s converted part of Liberty Hall into a munitions factory, and he’s making bombs and bayonets for the Citizen Army. There’s no holding him; he’s even recruiting women. He’s made Constance Markievicz a company commander. We’d like to have Connolly himself on our Military Council, but at first he even refused to write that article for us. He said, ‘Why are you fellows blethering on about dead Fenians? What you need is some live ones for a change.’”

  Ned burst into laughter.

  “So they sent him to me and we had a pleasant little talk,” Clarke went on blandly. “Good man, James Connolly. Tough, no pretense about him—and an excellent mind. In the finish-up he agreed to write the article. He’s calling it ‘Why the Citizen Army Honours Rossa.’”

  “I would like to have been a fly on the wall for that ‘pleasant little talk’ of yours,” said Ned. “I look forward to reading what he wrote.”

  “You’ll have your program on the day and Connolly will sign it for you personally; I’ll see to it. By the way, my Katty will be at the funeral too, though I’ll be too busy to spend any time with her. What say we have her bring along that friend of yours? They can keep each other company.”

  Ned felt his cheeks flame. He was a grown man, yet to his embarrassment he still blushed like a schoolboy over certain subjects. “Do you mean Síle Duffy?”

  “I do of course.”

  “Does your wife know her well enough?”

  Clarke began rearranging the tobacco tins behind the counter. “Well enough.”

  Ned was surprised. He had met Tom Clarke’s wife on several occasions and would not have taken her for the sort of person who would befriend a prostitute.

  Yet had he not done so himself?

  Sometimes, he thought, the labels we put on people simply don’t fit.

  THE next night Ned was home early for once. He thought of going to see Precious, but the activity of recent days was catching up with him. More than anything else he just wanted to go to bed. No sooner had he crawled under the covers, however, than he heard Henry’s voice on the stair, talking in low tones to someone else.

  Henry entered the room and fumbled beside the door to turn up the gaslight.

  When Neville Grantham came through the doorway Ned sat up with a start.

  “What are you doing here?” he and the Englishman asked each other simultaneously.

  Henry drawled, “I don’t think I need to introduce you two. Ned, you once mentioned meeting Neville. If I recall your exact words, he seemed ‘a decent sort.’”

  The Englishman was peering intently at the young man sitting bolt upright on the bed. “Jervis Street Infirmary, was it not?”

  Ned nodded. “And then Bachelor’s Walk. A year ago this month.”

  Grantham’s frown changed to a smile. “Dublin really is a small town. I never expected to meet you under these circumstances, but it’s a pleasure to see you again.”

  Ned replied coldly, “May
I ask why an employee of the Castle is calling on this house?”

  Grantham and Henry exchanged glances. Then Henry gestured toward his own neatly made bed. “Please take a seat there, Neville, it’s more comfortable than either of the chairs. This might be a long night.”

  “YOU must accept,” Neville Grantham told Ned, “that I love my country. But love does not necessarily confer blind loyalty. I am quite aware that we have made—are making—mistakes in our policy toward Ireland.”

  Ned had hastily dressed and was now sitting in one of the room’s two straight-backed chairs. “That’s no explanation,” he told the Englishman. “I repeat: Dublin Castle has no business here.”

  Henry started to say something, but Grantham held up his hand. “Let me elaborate. I realize the average Irish person sees the Castle as a ‘sink of jobbery and corruption.’ When Arthur Norway was put in charge of the Post Office there was outrage because a man who was both Protestant and a Mason had been given preference over well-qualified Irish Catholics. The newspapers claimed it was a conspiracy.”

  “Conspiracy is not unknown in the Castle,” Henry remarked dryly from his seat in the other chair.

  “Occasionally we even conspire against ourselves,” Grantham conceded. “My being here is rather a case in point. You see, Ned, the senior civil servants and army officers solidly support British policy toward Ireland. In the current war situation the possibility of invasion is never far from their minds. Every effort is being made to provide the United Kingdom with adequate reserves for the military. Any action counter to that objective is considered treasonous.

  “However, a few of us believe the government is blind to reality. We English have always liked to think we’re in Ireland ‘for Ireland’s own good.’ But the Irish are not by nature a subservient race. We should have recognized that long ago and made concessions to their dignity. If we had granted and enforced Home Rule thirty years ago, a unified Ireland might stand with us today as a loyal member of the kingdom.

  “Unfortunately, Parliament continues to withhold Home Rule for the sake of political expediency. This is losing us a lot of Irish sympathy. Meanwhile, there is considerable support for an Irish republic coming from abroad—it isn’t just the Sinn Féiners and their army anymore.”

  Grantham did not notice the sudden flicker of contempt in Ned’s face. He went on, “Other nations think Ireland’s aspirations are not unreasonable. Given the state of war between our countries, Germany’s sympathy toward Ireland creates a particularly dangerous situation.

  “When Baron Wimborne was named as viceroy I was hopeful at first. The post is mostly ceremonial; the chief secretary runs the Irish government and the under-secretary implements his policies. There we touch on part of the problem: a certain indecisiveness as to what policy to adopt in relation to the nationalists.

  “A diplomatic and well-informed viceroy could be most helpful in the current climate. Sadly, that description doesn’t fit Wimborne, who is a crude young man with no sensitivity. If he were a horse in the hunting field we would call him a ‘thruster’: one who wants to take the bit in his teeth. He’s absolutely bombarding the Castle with unasked-for advice. As for the chief secretary, when Alexander Birrell was first appointed he took quite an interest in Ireland. But since his wife died he directs Castle operations from his London office and hardly ever comes here. He’s out of touch; he’s no longer ‘the man on the ground.’

  “The man on the ground now is the new under-secretary, Sir Matthew Nathan, who is a most intelligent fellow but hasn’t had enough time to get a feel for the situation. Because his background is German Jewish, he doesn’t have the confidence of the other senior civil servants.3 He’s aware of their attitude, and the result is he won’t be guided by anyone but Birrell. So here I am in a Dublin lodging house, conspiring against my superiors in hopes of getting my own views across. If they knew I was talking to a reporter without authorization…” Grantham gave a nervous laugh and shifted his weight on the bed. A bedspring creaked protest.

  Henry told Ned, “When I happened to meet Neville at some Castle function, I recalled what you had said about him. And you were right, he is a decent sort. He’s genuinely concerned about Ireland and the Irish. I persuaded him to become one of my contacts by arguing that since everyone reads the newspapers, he can have some influence that way. As you’ve no doubt already realized, Ned, I’m trying to encourage the government to accept the legitimacy of the nationalist movement.”

  A muscle tightened in Ned’s jaw. “Then I think you should explain to them that the Irish Volunteers and Sinn Féin are not the same. The Sinn Féin newspaper has been very vocal in condemning British recruitment, so since we share that conviction I suppose the political party and the Irish Volunteers are linked in the minds of people who don’t bother to understand. But how can such people presume to govern Ireland?”

  In the light from the overhead fixture Neville Grantham’s face had deep pouches under the eyes. “I’m afraid I didn’t fully realize that myself,” he said apologetically. “A basic lack of understanding is part of the problem, Ned. That’s why I’m willing to work with Henry. His writing helps clarify issues without being confrontational.

  “For example, Dublin Castle has been monitoring preparations for the Rossa funeral. Henry’s articles have made them aware of the love Dubliners have for the man. He’s a folk hero and any interference with his funeral just might cause a riot, so the under-secretary has decided to keep hands off. He’s even granted permission for the body to lie in state in City Hall. A Fenian on the threshold of Dublin Castle; you can’t ask for fairer than that.”

  WHEN the Englishman had gone, Ned asked Henry, “What did you tell him about me?”

  “Nothing. I don’t discuss my friends with him, nor he with me.”

  “You didn’t mention that I was in the Volunteers?”

  “I told you, Ned, I didn’t mention you at all. He didn’t even know we knew each other until tonight.”

  “Do you trust him?”

  “He’s given me good information in the past.”

  “What if Neville Grantham’s really an informant for the Castle?”

  “I’m careful about what I tell him. From me he hears nationalist philosophy, not strategy plans.”

  “Do you know any?”

  Henry chuckled. “If I do, I certainly didn’t learn them from you. You’ve the best-sealed lip of anyone I know.”

  But in spite of Grantham’s assurances Ned was nervous about the upcoming funeral. He knew what the Englishman did not—that Pádraic Pearse was writing a graveside oration intended to set the fires of freedom ablaze.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  AT the end of July, Jeremiah O’Donovan Rossa came home to Ireland. The embalmed remains were taken to the Pro-Cathedral for the first night and laid before the high altar. The next day Ned Halloran was assigned to be one of the Volunteers serving as guard of honor while the body lay in state in City Hall. He arrived to find the open coffin already in place on trestles. At the head stood a priest with his eyes downcast in prayer.

  WHEN Father Paul looked up, he found a ruggedly masculine version of Kathleen Campbell’s face gazing at him across the body of the dead Fenian.

  Like a ghost, she had followed him three thousand miles, only to materialize in the form of a tall young man.

  It was not quite her face; the cheekbones and jaw were broader, and the eyes, though the same shape, were sea-green rather than sky-blue. But he knew that cleft chin, that vulnerable mouth.

  An invisible hand squeezed Paul’s heart so hard he caught his breath.

  Then he noticed the Volunteer uniform and realized he must be looking at Ned Halloran.

  AS the honor guard took their places, Brian Joyce, one of Ned’s former classmates from Saint Enda’s, muttered out of the side of his mouth, “That priest’s staring at you, Ned. What have you done now?”

  “I haven’t had time to commit even a venial sin in weeks.”

  B
rian snickered. The priest turned his eyes on him and the young man sobered at once. “Sorry, Father.”

  THE honor guard stood tall and straight, eyes fixed on distant glory. Within the casket, the well-embalmed Jeremiah O’Donovan Rossa lay with his eyes closed on eternity.

  AUGUST 1. Lughnasa, the ancient Celtic feast of the sun. The weather was typically Irish, with bands of rain clouds chasing one another across the sky between intervals of glorious sunshine.

  A great crowd accompanied O’Donovan Rossa’s horse-drawn hearse to Glasnevin Cemetery. Father Paul O’Shaughnessy walked with the other clergy in the procession. In his clerical garments he looked as much a native as any of them. For the first time since his arrival in Ireland, a peculiar feeling of being at home crept over him.

  He did not have the same feeling in the house of the Dublin cousins with whom he was staying. An elderly couple whose children had long since emigrated, Des and Ina Cahill lived in a working-class cottage in Ringsend. The red-brick walls of their house were crumbled and eroded by generations of weather, and the roof slumped in the middle like a swaybacked horse.

  Paul had been astonished to discover that husband and wife had not spoken to one another for fifteen years.

  Ina called her husband “that man,” when she had to mention him at all. For his part, Des referred to his wife with a toss of his head like a nervous tic. Yet they seemed comfortable enough with their relationship. Over the years the pair had grown to look remarkably alike, the major difference being Ina’s ubiquitous shawl. Though they never spoke directly, when one began a sentence the other could finish it with no break in continuity.

  In this fashion Paul was informed that O’Donovan Rossa was “a great man for the jest, sure he was,” according to Des. “Them Brits never took the smile off his face, even when they had him in prison…”

  “…and was torturin’ the poor divvil night and day, day and night,” Ina had finished for her husband. “Och, was he not after laughin’ aloud and singin’ Irish songs in his cell with the blood runnin’ off him?”