1916

by Morgan Llywelyn

  Now, as Paul paced steadily along in the funeral cortege, he recalled the gaunt, proud face in the open coffin in City Hall, and the way Dubliners had filed by, fingering rosaries and weeping as if O’Donovan Rossa had belonged to each one of them. As perhaps he had.

  To his surprise, Paul O’Shaughnessy was beginning to feel Irish.

  His eyes sought and found Ned Halloran, marching with the honor guard. In Paul’s pocket was a card carrying Ned’s address that Kathleen had given him at the close of their last painful meeting. “Please see my brother,” she had urged. “Do that much for me; assure me that he’s all right.”

  No. He must not think of Kathleen. To meet with Ned and look into that face—it was too painful. Best to make a clean and total break, like a form of surgery. Cut Kathleen out of his life.

  Against his will his eyes sought Ned again.

  He tore his gaze away and concentrated on his surroundings.

  There were a number of military contingents in the procession. Following a banner reading “Citizen Army” was a tall, lean woman wearing the insignia of a company commander on her dark green uniform.2 Her slouch hat was turned up at one side and bore a jaunty feathered cockade. The company she led marched in perfect step. The Citizen Army included other women as well, Paul observed to his surprise. Straight, proud, Irish women.

  Kathleen, he thought. Kathleen. You would want to be here.

  AT the gates of Glasnevin Cemetery a company of Dublin Metropolitan Police were waiting. They watched the crowds pouring through the gates but made no effort to stop them, though several policemen had notebooks in their hands and appeared to be taking names.

  A boy in a kilt and tunic asked Paul, “Are you with the corpse, Father?”

  The question made him smile. “I accompanied O’Donovan Rossa from America, yes.”

  The boy handed Paul a pasteboard ticket and a pamphlet. “This is your pass to the graveside, Father—it’s just through the gates. This is the literary program; it will tell you about the nationalist movement.”

  Paul’s smile deepened. “I’ve already heard quite a lot about the nationalist movement.”

  But he leafed idly through the program until his attention was caught by the words: “Slavery is a thing of the soul. Before a nation can be reduced to slavery its soul must have been cowed, intimidated or corrupted by the oppressor.” The author of the words was James Connolly.3

  The scene around the graveside more nearly resembled a festival than a funeral. Many people were wearing tricolor ribbon badges. More ribbons cordoned off the select area around the grave, which was fast filling up with men in military uniforms and civilians in their Sunday best.

  As the coffin was carried forward the honor guard took their positions. Paul could not help looking at Ned Halloran. Then he noticed a young woman in the crowd beside an older one; she too kept her eyes fixed on Ned.

  She’s quite striking, thought Paul. But not as beautiful as my Kathleen.

  My Kathleen.

  The priest dug his fingernails into the palms of his hands like the nails in Christ’s hands upon the cross.

  WHEN the coffin had been lowered into the earth Pádraic Pearse stepped forward to deliver the funeral oration. He wore the insignia of Rathfarnham E Company, Dublin Brigade, Irish Volunteers, on his uniform. From his tunic pocket he took out his speech, then removed his hat and tucked it in the crook of his elbow before he began to speak.4

  “It has seemed right,” he said in his measured cadence, “before we turn away from this place in which we have laid the mortal remains of O’Donovan Rossa, that one amongst us should, in the name of all, speak the praise of that valiant man, and endeavor to formulate the thought and the hope that are in us as we stand around his grave.”

  SÍLE Duffy moved away from Tom Clarke’s wife a few steps until Ned could see her. He gave her an almost imperceptible wink, then his eyes widened in astonishment.

  She was holding a tiny girl by the hand.

  “I propose to you then, that here by the grave of this unrepentant Fenian we renew our baptismal vows; that here by the grave of this unconquered and unconquerable man we ask of God, each one for himself, such unshakable purpose, such high and gallant courage, such unbreakable strength of soul as belonged to O’Donovan Rossa.”

  As Pearse spoke his eyes flashed; his usually stolid figure was alight with animation.

  “We stand at Rossa’s grave, not in sadness, but rather in exaltation of spirit. Splendid and holy causes are served by men who are themselves splendid and holy. O’Donovan Rossa was splendid in the proud manhood of him, splendid in the heroic grace of him, splendid in the Gaelic strength and clarity and truth of him. And all that splendor and pride and strength was compatible with a humility and a simplicity of devotion to Ireland.”

  PAUL O’Shaughnessy, who had Pearse speak once before, was struck by the passion of his delivery on this occasion. The orator was laying a spell upon the crowd. No program rustled, no one coughed. It hardly seemed they breathed.

  “THIS is a place of peace, sacred to the dead, where men should speak with all charity and all restraint. But I hold it a Christian thing, as O’Donovan Rossa held it, to hate evil, to hate untruth, to hate oppression, and hating them, to strive to overthrow them.

  “Our foes are strong, and wise, and wary; but they cannot undo the miracles of God, Who ripens in the hearts of young men the seeds sown by the young men of a former generation. Rulers and defenders of realms had need to be wary if they would guard against such processes.

  “Life springs from death, and from the graves of patriot men spring live nations. The defenders of this realm have worked well in secret and in the open. They think they have pacified Ireland. They think that they have purchased half of us, and intimidated the other half.”

  Pearse paused to draw a deep breath. Then his voice became a trumpet of defiance, blasting the summer air. Ned Halloran felt a chill run up his spine.

  “They think that they have provided against everything; but the fools, the fools, the fools! They have left us our Fenian dead, and while Ireland holds these graves, Ireland unfree shall never be at peace!”

  Chapter Thirty-six

  IN the thundering silence that followed, the only sound was a military command. Rifles were lifted; aimed at the sky. A volley of honor was fired over the grave.

  Pádraic Pearse donned his hat and put the folded speech back in his tunic pocket.

  People slowly wandered away, still silent, dreaming Pearse’s dream; seeing the Ireland he envisioned, Gaelic and free. If he had asked them, they would at that moment have taken up weapons and swept away Britain and all her devices.

  Henry Mooney had come to cover the funeral for the Independent. He also left deeply moved. How could the Castle underestimate this man? he asked himself. They do so at their peril.

  He would not say that, however, in the article he wrote.

  AS soon as the formalities were over and the honor guard dismissed, Ned plunged into the crowd in search of Síle. At first he could not find her—there were too many people, and few of them were leaving. Everyone present had somebody buried in Glasnevin. Single individuals and family groups still carrying Pearse’s words within them like a brimming chalice were seeking the graves of their dear ones.

  At last Ned saw Síle and Tom Clarke’s wife standing under a somber Irish yew, talking together. His eyes had not deceived him; Precious, half hidden by the long black dress Síle wore, was clinging to her hand.

  He strode toward them.

  Precious gave a squeal of delight when she saw Ned. Tearing free from Síle, she ran to him. Her laughter as he swept her into his arms rang among the tombstones.

  Kathleen Clarke greeted him with a compliment about the fit of his uniform. She had a long oval face and wore her graying hair parted in the middle and drawn softly back. Her clothing was dark and sober—except for the brilliant tricolor badge pinned defiantly to her shoulder.

  After chatting for a few m
oments she went off in search of her husband, and Ned turned to Síle. “What’s Precious doing here?”

  “I knew you hadn’t had a chance to see her lately, so I went to the orphanage and collected her this morning before I met Mrs. Clarke.”

  “How on earth did you get them to give her to you?”

  Síle smiled. “I told them I was your fiancée and we wanted to give the child an outing. You should have seen the look on the matron’s face! I’m sure she’s counting the days until she gets one of her charges permanently off her hands.”

  In her sober clothing she might have been any respectable woman. Only her mischievous eyes betrayed her.

  Fiancée. How dare she? Ned clenched his teeth. Imagine some common little whore claiming…but she wasn’t…she was…

  Precious stirred in his arms, twisted around and reached out. “Miss Síle! Now you hold me.”

  “How did you win her so fast?” Ned wanted to know. “She’s a shy girl.”

  Síle lifted the child from his arms and cuddled her, looking down into her upturned face. “Och, you’re not shy, are you?”

  “I’m not shy,” the child replied. “I’m precious.”

  Ned and Síle laughed together.

  All around them were families paying their respect to the dead, murmuring prayers, communing with loved ones. Ned and Síle strolled through the cemetery with Precious between them, holding their hands. Ancient yew trees cast pools of funereal shade. The adults paused from time to time to read an inscription on a gravestone, but the child was drawn to images. A marble lamb on a small pedestal caught her attention. “Is a lamb buried here?”

  Síle said, “A lot of lambs are buried here, Precious.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they died.”

  Precious turned to Ned. “Will I die?”

  He looked stricken. “Not for a long, long time.”

  “But I will die?” the child persisted.

  Síle met his eyes. “Tell her the truth, Ned. You must always tell children the truth.”

  “When they’re old enough, when they can understand. But not now. Why destroy her innocence?”

  “You’ll destroy her innocence if you lie to her.” She bent to the child. “You will die, Precious; we all will. But none of us knows when.”

  “And we’ll be buried in the ground?”

  “We’ll go to Jesus,” Ned interjected.

  Precious gave him a wide-eyed look. “How?”

  “He’ll come for us.”

  “Like you came for me when the bad men were shooting? But you left me then. Will Jesus leave us, too?”

  Ned had the despairing feeling of someone digging himself deeper into a hole of his own making. “Jesus never leaves us. He is with us always.”

  “Where?” Precious gazed around at the people walking among the graves. “Which one is Jesus?”

  “You can’t see him.”

  “Why? Is he dead like the lamb? I want to understand!”

  Síle bit her lip to keep from laughing. “I warned you,” she told Ned. Crouching down so her eyes were level with the child’s, she said, “Jesus was a very good man who died. His body was put into the ground to sleep. But no one ever completely dies. The part of Jesus we call his spirit lives on.”

  “Spirit?”

  “You have one living inside of you this very minute. It’s what makes you Precious.”

  The little girl looked down at her body. “I don’t see it.”

  “You can’t see the wind, either,” Síle pointed out. “But it’s very real.”

  “Will my spirit keep living when my body goes to sleep in the ground?”

  “It will, I promise.”

  A smile spread across the small face. “Then that’s all right, so!” In another moment she danced away on twinkling feet, pursuing a passing butterfly.

  Ned was gazing at Síle as if he had never seen her before. In truth, he felt that he had not; not seen the real Síle, the one inside. The spirit.

  THEY spent the rest of the day with Precious. Síle suggested they buy her a meal before returning her to the orphanage. “Look at her, Ned, she’s very small for her age. This child wants feeding up.”

  “What do you know about mothering?”

  “Whores know a lot about mothering,” she replied with the frankness that always startled him. “That’s what many men come to us for, though they would never admit it.”

  “How can you say things like that, Síle?”

  “I’ve helped bathe the newborn and helped bury the dead; I’ve seen too much of reality to pretend it doesn’t exist.”

  Not far from the front gates of Glasnevin stood a small restaurant advertising “Tea and Wholesome Cookery.” Mary Cosgrave would have scorned the modest facade and grease-stained menu, but Precious was aglow with excitement. “Are we really going to eat here, Ned-Ned?” she asked as he tucked a napkin beneath her chin. “I never ate in a restaurant before. What’s on that plate over there? Can I have some?”

  “May I have some,” Ned corrected gently.

  She regarded him solemnly, then repeated, “May I have some?”

  “All you want, pet.”

  The adults watched with amusement as she devoured a portion of roast chicken with bacon, two glasses of milk, and three slices of soda bread with butter. “You’re going to explode,” teased Síle.

  A man at the next table overheard and clapped his hands together. “Boom!”

  Fear leaped in the little girl’s eyes.

  Before she could begin to cry Ned pulled her onto his lap and held her close.

  Síle asked anxiously, “What’s wrong?”

  “Loud noises. Bachelor’s Walk.”

  Síle moved her chair closer to add the circle of her own arms to the wall of protection around Precious, and eventually the child’s trembling stopped. “I’m not scared,” she insisted.

  When it was time to take her back to the orphanage the little girl clung to them. “I want to go home with you, Ned-Ned.”

  “I can’t take you there, sweetheart. I live in a boardinghouse for men.”

  The child turned to Síle. “Then you take me, Miss Síle.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t have a home, at least not a real one.”

  Precious considered this gravely. Then she said as if the matter was decided, “You shall come and stay with me then. I have a bed anyway.”

  Síle turned her head away so Ned would not see the glitter of tears in her eyes.

  When Precious had been handed over to the matron at the orphanage, Ned told Síle, “I shall take you home now.”

  “Och, not at all, I can see myself back.”

  “I cannot allow—”

  “Please, Ned. I don’t want you to see me there.”

  He turned toward her. “You said you don’t avoid reality. Are you ashamed of what you do?”

  She would not look at him. “How could I be otherwise?”

  “Then why not give it up? You’re still young, you could go back home and make a new start.”

  “Go home? To Clare?” Her laugh was bitter. “Oh, they would give me a big welcome, would they not. The girl who ran off with the cattle dealer. Even the dogs in the road know about me back home. In the country gossip outlives the grave. There’s no new start to be made there, Ned, not for me.”

  “Stay in Dublin then. But leave that house.”

  “And do what? How would I keep myself?”

  “Surely you could find honest work. At least you can read and write.”

  “I went to the National School for a while.” Her lip curled at the memory. “Went barefoot and ragged, with a cold potato in my pocket for my dinner.”

  “Could you not apply as a shop assistant?”

  “And who would I use for references, Mrs. Dolly Drumgold of Faithful Place?”

  “What about Tom Clarke? Or is he…” Ned hesitated, but he had to ask. “Is he a client?”

  To his relief, Síle threw back her head and laughed.
“Tom Clarke? You must be joking! If every man was as devoted a husband as Tom Clarke there would be no unhappy wives in this country—and a lot less business for girls like me.”

  “Then how did you come to know one another?”

  “Sometimes I despair of you, Ned me lad. You’re as thick as a plank. Do you think only men can be patriots? I come from a Fenian family that goes back generations. The British took everything from them but their longing for freedom. I didn’t come away from Clare with my parents’ blessing, but I brought their politics with me.

  “This city is divided between the rich and the poor, and the poor are Irish. In Clare I had never seen any rich people, I didn’t even know what rich was, or how much better life could be. But now I know. I see it every day. I have my nose rubbed in it.

  “You ask how I know Tom Clarke? The aristocracy may go to the flash houses, but the middle-level British civil servants and the ‘Castle Catholics’ come to us. You’d be surprised what men will tell a whore.

  “Whenever I hear something useful, I take it to Tom Clarke.”

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  THE defiance of Pádraic Pearse’s graveside oration attracted the attention of the authorities to him at last. For once they were decisive; reprisal was swift. The government launched an examination of his personal finances. In mid-August, the solicitor handling the estate from which Pearse rented the Hermitage received a letter from the Castle warning him of his tenant’s “dangerous position.”1 He promptly submitted a demand to Saint Enda’s for the immediate payment of six months’ rent.

  Pádraic Pearse could not meet the demand. But the loss of Saint Enda’s would not only break his heart, it would also damage the cause. Through Tom Clarke, he turned in desperation to America for help. Three hundred pounds was sent in time to pay the rent, and the school was safe—for a while.

  IN September twelve hundred Irish Volunteers, Ned among them, marched openly through Dublin carrying Howth rifles. The weapons were old but the symbol was potent. That same month the members of Cumann na mBan staged their first parade in their new uniforms. The Fianna were drilling like veterans all around the city. Another corps, the Hibernian Rifles, was formed as an armed breakaway group from the Ancient Order of Hibernians.2 Meanwhile, a new round of strikes and lockouts on the docks was resulting in increased membership for Connolly’s Citizen Army.