1916

by Morgan Llywelyn

  At the funeral the next day the publican would be standing right beside the family. Such customs were the same, city or country. Afterward he would shepherd Dessie’s pub mates back to his establishment to give the deceased a properly wet send-off. The postfuneral “sympathizing” would include a tearful and lofty tribute to the dead man and conclude with a boisterous sing-song in the small hours.

  On the evening of Dessie’s Removal, Peter North’s was crowded with dockworkers. The spittoons were overflowing. Ned and Paul managed to find a relatively quiet corner, and Ned ordered ale for both of them.

  “I should have looked you up sooner,” Paul apologized. “Kathleen did give me your address.”

  “You might not have found me anyway, I’m rarely at home these days.”

  “Ah, yes, the Volunteers.”

  “Among other things.” Ned did not intend to divulge any information about himself to this stranger.

  Paul was equally unwilling to discuss personal matters.

  They circled each other conversationally in the same way that two dogs meeting in the street circle one another.

  “Judging from her letters, my sister thinks highly of you.”

  “I hold Mrs. Campbell in the highest regard.”

  “Do you see much of her?”

  “Until I came to Ireland I did. I was her parish priest.”

  Ned rubbed the cleft in his chin with his thumb. He was going to have to give something to get something, it appeared. “Her last letter to me indicated she was having some problems.”

  “With her husband?” The response came too fast; the anxiety that leaped in the priest’s eyes gave too much away.

  “Has she been having trouble with her husband, Father? As her priest, I assume you would know.”

  Paul retired behind his professional mask. “You know I can’t repeat anything revealed to me in the confessional.”

  “What about outside the confessional? I’ve met Alexander Campbell; he isn’t the man I would have wanted for her.”

  “No.”

  “He seems coarse-fibered under that smooth surface.”

  “Yes.”

  By now Ned was certain something was very wrong. He determined to force the priest out of his reticence. “She says she’s being watched. She makes it sound quite sinister”—Ned chose the word deliberately—“and I’m worried about her safety.”

  Paul stared at him for a long moment, then closed his eyes. “Oh, God.”

  Ned caught the priest’s wrist in an iron grasp. “You do know about her trouble, whatever it is! I think you’d best tell me.”

  “There isn’t anything you can do about it, not with her in New York.”

  “When you were in New York did you do anything about it?” Ned replied harshly. The priest winced, but Ned did not care. “Tell me this: is Alexander abusive? It might surprise you to know, Father, that Ireland has a long reach. I have certain connections in America. If Campbell’s done anything to hurt my sister I’ll see that he regrets it.”

  Looking at those green eyes, Paul did not have a doubt in the world.

  Actually, Ned had no idea if anyone in the IRB could or would help him. But if his sister was in danger he would do whatever he must.

  Paul stood up. “Do you want a whiskey? I think I need one.” He thrust his hand into his pocket and drew out his wallet. “It’s my shout.”

  Ned smiled. At least the priest was learning Dublin slang.

  The whiskey was strong and good. Paul took a deep drink and shuddered as the liquid burned down his throat. Ned waited for the Irish “water of life” to work its magic, then leaned toward Paul and said, “Please talk to me now, Father. I’m her brother; you can trust me.”

  To his surprise, Paul found himself relaxing. There was something about the young man that encouraged confidence—or perhaps it was just the whiskey. “I did try to help your sister, Ned. Her husband had some thugs beat me up.”

  Ned was shocked. “He had a priest assaulted? Why?”

  Paul chose to answer the first question but not the second. “I can’t prove he was responsible, but I’m relatively certain. That’s the reason I’m here, you see. My bishop felt it would be a good idea to send me away for a while for my own safety.”

  “And leave Kathleen unprotected?”

  “My being there just made things worse, I’m afraid.”

  “Why?” Even as Ned repeated the question, a suspicion was dawning. “You…and my sister?”

  “We’re not lovers,” Paul said quickly. “I give you my word it hasn’t gone that far. But I love her. And I think she loves me.”

  Never in his life had Ned read such misery in another man’s face.

  THE next day Ned spoke to Tom Clarke. It was no good taking the problem to Pádraic Pearse; Pearse would only have sent him to Clarke anyway.

  Ned had never asked the old Fenian anything about the IRB’s American connections; Clarke told people what they needed to know and nothing more. But now Ned had to ask, which meant giving some sort of explanation.

  “My sister’s husband is abusing her,” he told Clarke. “Rather badly, I am told. Is there someone in New York who could…”

  “Threaten him for you? The Brotherhood doesn’t go in for bullyboy tactics, Ned; it was formed to put an end to that very sort of thing. Why doesn’t she go to the police?”

  “The police here aren’t interested in domestic squabbles, and I doubt if the New York police are any different. But you just said the Fenians were organized to resist the bullying of the weak by the strong. My sister’s been good to the cause, Tom. She’s raised money for Saint Enda’s and the Volunteers both. Now she’s being bullied—and worse. Her priest told me she was…intimately assaulted…in a way no man should treat his wife.” Ned hated to reveal something so personal, but he was desperate.

  Tom Clarke’s lips tightened. “Leave it with me. I’ll do what I can. Give me her name and address.”

  “Will you be contacting New York soon?”

  “Today, as it happens. I’m writing an urgent letter to be entrusted to a reliable steward on one of the steamship lines. Now that a date’s been fixed for the Rising the Military Council has to be sure of sufficient weapons. Pat’s lost all faith in the promises the Germans made to Roger Casement. He’s been urging John Devoy and Clan na Gael to help us get arms immediately and I’m about to add my plea to his.7 I can certainly mention your sister at the same time. Perhaps a few of our lads in New York might have a quiet word with your brother-in-law—just to let him know his actions are being watched. Put a bit of a fright on him.”

  “I’m very grateful, Tom.”

  The other man shrugged his narrow shoulders. “Don’t be grateful for anything until it’s actually done.”

  ON the second of March the British Military Service Act came into force in England, Scotland, and Wales.8 Conscription in Ireland was expected any day.

  EMERGING from his house that very morning, Alexander Campbell drew a deep breath and looked around with his usual air of self-satisfaction. The crisp March air smelled of coal dust and automobile exhaust, but he liked the smell. The city was awake and busy, like himself.

  As he started down the steps two men approached him. They were very large but neatly dressed; not street toughs. He nodded and was about to pass them by when one called his name.

  “Yes?”

  “Your wife is Kathleen Halloran?”

  “My wife is Kathleen Campbell, and I do not discuss her with strangers on the street.”

  “It’s thoughtful of you to be so considerate,” replied the younger of the two men. “You always treat your wife like a lady, do you?”

  Alexander’s face reddened with anger. “How dare you!”

  The man caught him by the lapels of his overcoat. “How dare you,” he said in a low voice that positively vibrated with menace, “mistreat a woman.”

  “You don’t know what you’re—”

  “We know all we need to know,” said the secon
d man, thrusting his face forward belligerently. The smashed nose and the set of the jaw were those of a prizefighter. “And all you need to know, mister, is that your wife’s not alone in the world, sure she’s not. She has friends. Friends who will be watching you from now on.”

  The other man added, “Anything you do to her will be done to you. Double.” Suddenly he grinned, a suggestive leer that chilled Alexander to the bone. “Anything you do to her.”

  The prizefighter laughed.

  Badly shaken, Alexander stumbled back into his house and slammed the door behind him.

  ON March fourth, twenty-three hundred delegates attended the annual Irish Race Convention at the Hotel Astor in New York.9 The Ancient Order of Hibernians and every other active Irish-American organization took part. The convention concluded with the establishment of a new organization to be known as the Friends of Irish Freedom.

  The story was covered in the Gaelic American. Kathleen bought the newspaper secretly, but did not get a chance to read it until the next morning when Alexander left for work. As soon as she heard him go out the door she hurried to her room and took the folded paper from the bottom of the wardrobe. Then she sat down on her brocaded slipper-chair and began to read.

  According to the article, the purpose of the Friends was to encourage and assist the national independence of Ireland. John Devoy had said an appeal must be made to the international powers once the European war ended. Ireland should have a seat at the peace conference, which would be the best forum for putting forward its case, but to be included they would have to be announced belligerents. “Therefore,” Devoy had told the new group, “we urge Irish patriots to establish a national government and take up military posts—now.”

  “Merciful Hour,” Kathleen breathed. “It’s the Rising at last.” She was exhilarated and terrified. Freedom for Ireland! But if there was any fighting, Ned and the Volunteers would surely be involved. God protect him; let it be anyone but Ned!

  The article mentioned a new Victory Fund to be used solely for the purpose of winning Irish independence. Kathleen went to the wardrobe to see if any money remained in her private purse. Just as she reached for it she heard the front door slam.

  She straightened up. A few moments later Alexander stood in the doorway.

  Kathleen held the newspaper behind her back, but he was not interested in newspapers. He looked like a man who had just received a bad shock.

  “Are you all right?”

  He was staring at her most peculiarly.

  “I said, ‘Are you all right?’ Speak to me, Alexander.”

  His mouth worked but no sound came out. After a few moments he turned and left the room. She heard him say something to the new housemaid and go out again. Returning to her newspaper, Kathleen put her husband’s odd behavior out of her mind. She was more worried about her brother.

  Oh, Ned, for God’s sake don’t do anything rash!

  Chapter Forty-two

  THOUGH he had been suffering from one cold after another since Christmas, Joe Plunkett was busy drawing up his most recent set of military strategies. Ned found him lying on a couch with a coverlet across his legs and a mountain of pillows at his back. There were papers spread all over the coverlet. He glanced up as Ned entered the room. “I’ll be through with these in a minute and then you can take them to Pat. Where is he?”

  “He’s been at Volunteer Headquarters all day, trying to prepare for the Rising without making Bulmer Hobson suspicious. Fortunately, Hobson doesn’t check through the files very often.”

  “What would happen if he did?”

  “He’d go straight to Eoin MacNeill, of course, and then we would have a problem. We need to keep MacNeill in the dark until the last minute so he doesn’t overturn our plans. He’s still dead set against taking any form of initiative. James Connolly was wrong to worry about us; it’s MacNeill and the overly cautious men like him who would waste the best chance we’ll ever have.”

  Plunkett wrote a few last words, then handed Ned the papers. “Here, fold these and put them under your shirt. And may they warm your heart.”

  Ned grinned.

  “I have some heartwarming news myself,” Plunkett told him, turning to punch up his pillows. “We’re keeping quiet about it for now, but in December Miss Gifford consented to marry me. You might as well know since we’ll invite you to the wedding.”

  “Joe, that’s just splendid. Congratulations, she’s a lovely girl.”

  Plunkett beamed. “She is, isn’t she? When she was studying art with William Orpen, he painted a portrait of her. It’s called Young Ireland.

  “She’s Protestant and I’m Catholic, and her family has some reservations about the marriage. But Grace is studying Catholicism and hopes to convert in time for the wedding. And I’m determined to be healthier by then, even if it means going abroad for an operation.”

  “I couldn’t be happier for you. When’s the wedding?”

  “We were planning to marry at Easter, but now with the Rising scheduled, I’m not certain. Soon, though. We’re promised to one another, and I would never break a promise to Grace.”

  AT Volunteer Headquarters in Dawson Street, Pádraic Pearse was in animated conversation with Seán MacDermott. There was no sign of Bulmer Hobson.

  Both men looked up as Ned entered. “How’s Joe?”

  “He’s resting today but says he’ll be out and about again by tomorrow. He’s planning to go to Switzerland for an operation on his throat.”1

  “That could be most opportune,” said MacDermott.

  “What do you mean?”

  “We’ve had a positive response from Clan na Gael about supplying us with arms.2 At first they were going to send them through a South American port but that fell through, so now they’ve applied direct to the Germans. John Devoy’s raised additional funds to pay for the weapons. The plan is for three German trawlers to land at least twenty thousand rifles and ammunition in Tralee Bay in time for the Rising. We can have Joe make the final arrangements with Berlin as soon as he gets to Switzerland. The government here won’t know a thing.

  “Once we have those weapons we’re on our way. We have a chance, a damned good chance, of pulling this off. The odds against us are long but they’re far from hopeless.3 Thanks to the war there are only about six thousand soldiers in the country right now, plus some ten thousand policemen. We have at least eighteen thousand Irish Volunteers ready to take to the field tomorrow. If we can arm all of them, we can make a real fight of it.”

  Pearse added, “The longer we last, the more the Irish people will get behind us. They are beaten down now; they need something to pull them out of their lethargy. The Rising will do that.”

  “You really think we can win?” Ned asked eagerly.

  Pearse gazed at him with those visionary’s eyes. “We will win. One way or another, we will win.”

  MRS. Clarke had arranged for Síle to board with a republican family who lived in the same neighborhood. When Ned called on her that evening he found her brimming with excitement. She did not know the particulars, but she knew the revolution was coming. She could feel it like some great sleeping beast beneath their feet, stirring with the arrival of spring.

  “I’m taking first aid classes at Liberty Hall, Ned! Dr. Kathleen Lynn’s teaching them; she’s the medical officer for the Citizen Army. I’m learning how to treat battle wounds so I can help the Volunteers.”

  Ned told her, “If the British government responds to us the way they did to the threat of force from the Ulster Volunteers, an accommodation might be reached without a shot being fired.”

  “Will there be no fighting, then?”

  He would not meet her eyes. “It’s hard to say.”

  A little of the light went out of her face, as if she had caught him being dishonest with her.

  Ned longed to share everything with Síle, but he could not be specific about what he knew. Secrecy was imposed by the IRB for a good reason. Risings in the past had been betrayed by
as little as an accidental slip of the tongue.

  NED wrote to his Aunt Norah: “We are very busy in Dublin these days, but I want you to know that I would come home for a visit if I could. My heart is with you and Frank and the girls. Kiss them for me.”

  He dare not tell her good-bye.

  Increasingly his dreams were of Clare, of the limestone-studded Burren and the high sky and the Atlantic light. The curve of the hills; the white lace of the whitethorn blooming in May. The cuckoo’s cry. Thinking of them sent a pain as sharp as a lance through his soul.

  James Connolly had said, “Ireland as distinct from her people is nothing to me.” Forced to consider the possibility of his own mortality, Ned realized it was the land he loved, the formidable and formative topography of Clare. The doors of possibility the Titanic had opened revealed vistas not half as appealing as home.

  But he would never go home again. Even if they won, even if Ireland was free. To go back to Clare would mean giving up Síle, who could not go home.

  “Sometime,” Ned remarked to Henry one morning as they were preparing to go to work, “I should like to write about what things cost.”

  “Too bloody much,” his friend growled as he adjusted his suspenders. “And now there’s talk of raising the price of the pint.”

  ON Saint Patrick’s Day, the Irish Volunteers assembled in College Green for a display of military maneuvers that lasted almost two hours, considerably interfering with traffic around the former Irish Parliament building.4 The Castle sent policemen down, but though they paced back and forth and slapped their batons against the palms of their hands, they did not interfere with the march.

  “They can’t decide whether they want to beat us or join us,” Ned remarked to Seán Heuston.

  Eoin MacNeill proudly reviewed the troops. He did not know that many of them were carrying rounds of live ammunition.

  ON the twenty-first of March the fortnightly céili was held at Saint Enda’s.5 As this was also the traditional Saint Enda’s Day celebration, the Hermitage was thrown open and everyone who had any connection with the school was welcome. Willie Pearse hand-lettered hundreds of invitations. When Thomas MacDonagh received his, he laughed to his wife, “I see Pat’s been sternly organizing the merrymaking again.”