Women of Courage

by Tim Vicary

  Tears of frustration came into Catherine’s eyes. ‘You arrest men all the time, and they are beaten and starved in prison. How do I know what happens in all the prisons? I have not been ...’

  ‘You have not been there and you do not know. Men are not tortured. I asked for an example of one man who has been shot without cause.’

  ‘Thomas Clarke, Padraig Pearse, Thomas MacDonagh, James Connolly - you had to tie him to a chair, didn’t you, because he was so ill he couldn’t stand!’

  ‘Those men were traitors. Tried by court martial in 1916 and found guilty of leading armed rebellion in time of war, with guns obtained from the enemy. They were given every benefit of law. You have a strange idea of justice, young woman, if …’

  ‘Thomas Ashe, then! Was that justice - to arrest a man for nothing, and then kill him because he would not eat? Thrusting a tube down his throat until he was throttled, like the poor suffragettes!’

  French’s face twitched. ‘Clumsy fool of a doctor. It should never have happened; we don’t do it now. Anyway, that was two years ago, young lady, before I had this office. I asked you for one example - one - of a man or woman that has been shot without reason since I was Viceroy.’

  ‘Oh, without reason! Well …’

  ‘Unjustly, then. You imply that soldiers - or policemen, is it? Which? - go around this country, with my blessing, shooting men on sight. Tell me one instance, then, and I shall have it investigated.’

  The atmosphere in the carriage was electric. No one in it could pretend not to be listening to the extraordinary, shouted argument between His Majesty’s Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, and this insolent slip of a girl. The men all stood around, watching, while she unconsciously exercised her woman’s privilege to remain seated. Catherine gloried in it. Whatever happened, she was striking her blow! Only . . . she could not quite remember an actual instance . . .

  ‘Oh, there have been dozens of cases!’

  ‘So I hear. Tell me one.’

  The men waited. Unexpectedly, the train rattled into a tunnel. In the sudden darkness, Catherine was again seized by her wild fantasy of snatching a pistol. But - where? Then the train came out into the light again, and the men were still in their places, swaying slightly with the movement of the train, waiting for her answer.

  ‘Your police break up election meetings with batons and bayonets! I saw them do it once. They charged an unarmed crowd ...’

  ‘Did they shoot anyone?’

  ‘No. But it was only by chance. They raided meetings of the Dail, with guns and armoured cars!’

  ‘Did they shoot anyone?’

  ‘N-no.’ Catherine shook her head angrily. There must be something wrong with her mind. She believed it so strongly, had heard it said so often - why could she not remember an example, now, of all times?

  ‘They did not shoot anyone because they are a disciplined force. Illegal gatherings have been broken up, it is true, men have been arrested, and the law has been enforced. But at no time since I have been Viceroy has any soldier or policeman shot an Irishman, unarmed or not. Whereas, as you surely must know, young woman, there are almost weekly reports of policemen being shot, in the street, by cowardly assassins. If those are the sort of men who represent your noble republic, then God help Ireland, that’s all I have to say. Now if you will excuse me, I have work to attend to in the other carriage. Please stay and make yourself comfortable for the rest of the journey, and think about what I have said. Come, gentlemen!’

  ‘They are heroes!’ Catherine shouted, to his retreating back. But she was so choked with anger at her defeat that her voice was an awkward squeak rather than a shout, and he ignored it.

  Her father left with the others, and for the rest of the journey Catherine was alone. She sat in the comfortable flowery overstuffed armchair and stared out at the wintry fields of the country she loved. A surge of conflicting emotions boiled inside her, like the great Atlantic waves she loved to watch when they were forced into a narrow cove under the cliffs, and met the backwash of the one before. Sometimes she felt elated, as she thought how she had seized her moment, and told the Viceroy to his face things he had probably never heard before. She felt fury that she had lost the argument in the end, through a trick, a form of words. Perhaps no one had been shot, but the bulk of it was true - the oppression, the provocation, the internment! Then she felt embarrassment, and pain for what she had done to her father. She must have made him look a fool, in front of these men, and she had not meant that. She had often fought him in private, but never in front of others; that was not her way. But he shouldn’t have tricked her and brought her here. He knew what she felt, he knew what she was like, surely - what had he thought would happen?

  Several officers tried unsuccessfully to talk to her, but her father did not come back into the carriage until the train pulled into Ashtown Station. Then he was quiet, polite.

  ‘We have some unfinished discussions, and Viscount French has offered to drive us both, in his car, to the Viceregal Lodge. I hope you will come.’

  She pitied him, and stood up dutifully. ‘Yes, Father, of course.’

  Sean Brennan fingered the Mills bombs in his pocket. He had left the pub now and was walking slowly up the road towards Ashtown Gate. In one pocket were two Mills bombs, in the other a revolver. He had fired the gun several times before, but never thrown a bomb. His fingertips traced the criss-cross pattern of indentations in the metal. These were the weak spots in the little steel egg, he thought. The explosion would rupture the egg here first, sending little square shards of the thicker metal whizzing through the air to tear through flesh, cartilage, bone. He could feel the bombs through his coat pocket as he walked, bouncing against his hip. He was a medical student, he knew how bodies worked. He thought of the movement of the hip, the ball and socket joint where the thighbone moved back and forth in his pelvis as he walked; he imagined the tensing and loosening of the ligaments, the flexing of the muscles, the movement of the skin above. All quite painless, effortless. His fingers touched a ring in his pocket. One tug on that, and a few seconds later his hip would be smashed into a red mess, mincemeat pierced by shards of shattered bone …

  ‘There it is, Sean,’ muttered his companion, Martin Savage. ‘They’re coming out.’

  Sean turned his head, jerkily, and looked back at the station about half a mile away. The cars had started their engines, and stood there shaking and steaming in a line. Between the two, he saw a police sergeant, like a tiny puppet, saluting, and a number of khaki-clad figures strolling casually out of the station. At a little distance from the two cars was the army lorry, with the rifles of the soldiers bristling above it.

  ‘Don’t look so sharp, Sean! We’re just out for a walk, for the health of our lungs, remember?’

  ‘That’s right. I’m sorry.’ He noticed with a slight academic interest that he felt warm. His mouth was dry, slight prickles of sweat formed on his fingers. I wonder what my eyes look like, he thought. I wonder if they widen. He seemed to hear everything very clearly, as one did before a thunderstorm. Someone was shouting.

  ‘You’ll take it away, I tell you! ‘Tis the Viceroy himself is coming through here!’

  ‘That we won’t, old man!’

  The voices came quite clearly to his heightened senses, although the speakers were nearly twenty yards away. At the road junction, the police constable was arguing with the three Volunteers who had control of the farm cart. The unhitched horse munched peacefully beside them. The cart was a vital part of the ambush. It was to be pushed out into the road to block the second car, which would contain the Viceroy. If they could run across the road with it quickly enough, it would cut Lord French off from the first car, and leave him stranded, at the mercy of their bombs and guns. More Volunteers were hidden on the rising ground behind the hedges opposite the pub, watching the argument with the constable.

  ‘They’ll have to deal with that fool!’ said Sean’s companion. ‘If he doesn’t leave off this instant he’s a dead
man!’

  As he spoke, Sean saw the argument develop into a tussle. One of the Volunteers grabbed the constable’s coat, trying to drag him away. But the constable was a big man, and he threw his attacker off. The man staggered, tripped over a stone, and fell down. The constable stepped back, warily eyeing the other two who were moving towards him. Then all three turned their heads as an engine by the station roared into life and the first car started down the road towards them. The policeman glanced at it, and then stared back at his attackers. His mouth fell open in a wide O as the terrible truth burst like sunlight in his brain. He stepped back, raising one clumsy hand to wave at the car while he fumbled with the other for his whistle.

  Sean saw the bomb coming through the air, but his mind did not register what it was. It came slowly, in a high lob from behind the hedge, turning end over end like a tiny rugby ball heading between the posts. It came over the policeman’s head, hit the road between him and the cart, and rolled around in a little circle like a stone. Then it exploded.

  The blast hit his face like a hurricane. But it was hot, as the Irish wind never is. He threw up his arm to shield his face, and stumbled back, hanging on to his friend, Martin, to stay upright. Then it was gone, and he saw the policeman writhing on the ground, clutching his leg. The three Volunteers were on the ground too, crawling oddly several ways at once.

  ‘For the love of Mary!’ shouted Martin. ‘Will the fools warn every peeler in the County Dublin?’ Then they looked and saw the first car speeding towards them - faster than before, it seemed.

  ‘Come on, Sean!’ Martin shouted. ‘Get the cart!’ One of the three men around the cart had got to his feet, but the other two were still crawling feebly, like lost animals. The two young men ran to the cart and grabbed its sides, ready to push it out into the road. The car was nearly upon them. Sean heard the crack of gunfire. He heaved at the cart, but the great clumsy wheels wouldn’t move.

  ‘We’re too late, Martin!’ he screamed.

  ‘No! Don’t worry about that one!’ his friend yelled. ‘Get the second car! That’s the one the bugger’s in! Come on, boy - push!’

  But Lord French was in the first car, with Catherine, her father, and two other officers. The rest had stayed on the train. In an attempt, perhaps, to smooth over the quarrel, the Viceroy had insisted that Sir Jonathan O’Connell-Gort and his daughter accompany him, and had, most unusually, got into the first car outside the station, instead of the second. Catherine, trying to make amends to her father, followed in mutinous silence.

  The chauffeur, wearing his leather gauntlets, driving helmet and goggles, shut the door on them politely as they climbed into the back. Lord French’s personal detective, Detective Sergeant Halley, sat in the front beside the chauffeur. As they moved off, the Viceroy smiled at Catherine rather stiffly, trying to resume their conversation where he had broken it off.

  ‘When you are older, young woman, you will understand that this country needs firm government, like all other parts of the Empire. Firmness and justice, that is what is needed. I am not opposed to Irish people having a say in their own affairs, and neither is Lloyd George. It is my belief that we have held back on Home Rule long enough, and I daresay it is no great secret if I tell you I expect him to bring in a bill to the House this very week. So you will get most of what you want! Read the papers and see, if you don’t believe me. But as for this murderous campaign against the police …’

  ‘It won’t be enough!’ Catherine burst out angrily. ‘I do read the papers, my lord; I have read a lot about what Lloyd George has to say. He will never give us enough unless we fight for it!’

  Lord French frowned. He flicked his gloves irritably against his thigh. ‘Do you really mean to tell me, young lady, that we should give way to a man with a gun, just because he asks us to?’

  ‘You gave way to the men of Ulster when they had guns! When the government was going to give us Home Rule before the war, the Ulstermen faced you with guns, and said they wouldn’t have it. You didn’t stand up to them then, did you? You gave in to them at the Curragh! Where was your firm government then?’

  Lord French’s mouth was set in a hard line, and for a moment he said nothing. Catherine noticed, with interest, that his cheek had gone suddenly pale, and then, equally swiftly, was flushing bright red. In a very cold, clipped voice, he said: ‘I imagine you were only a child then, Miss Gort, and you are little more than that now. But it may interest you to know that I resigned as Chief of the Imperial General Staff over that affair, and that I in no way endorsed the action of Mr Carson and the Ulster Volunteers. Perhaps you should tell that to your revolutionary friends, if …’

  There was a muffled explosion from the front of the car, and a curse from the chauffeur. Catherine thought the car had backfired, but then it suddenly started to go much faster. She peered ahead, over the detective’s shoulders, and saw a cart and some figures running around in the road.

  ‘What is it, Sergeant?’ asked Lord French.

  ‘Don’t know, sir.’ Detective Sergeant Halley was pulling his revolver from his pocket. ‘I think …’

  The window beside Catherine exploded. There was a blast of hot wind, glass all over her face and coat, and shouting. Detective Sergeant Halley was shooting out of the window, and there were bangs and rattles along the side of the car, as though someone was throwing stones at it. Lord French and her father had their pistols out, and French was pulling down the window on his side. The car was going very fast, bouncing and swerving wildly.

  The sound of pistols being fired from inside the car was much worse than anything from outside. Catherine put her hands over her ears, then took them away again as she realized there was glass on the sleeve of her coat. She stared out of the broken window and saw two young men, a few yards ahead, standing by a farm cart. A revolver jerked in one man’s hand, once, twice, three times, a puff of blue-grey smoke coming from it each time. The other young man had a bomb in his hand. She saw him take it out of his pocket, pull out the pin, and bend back his arm to throw.

  She saw his face quite clearly. She could never forget it. It was a face that she knew too well.

  Sean only saw the car itself, not who was in it. It surged up the road towards him, bouncing and swaying on the rough surface, and he saw a confused blur of faces behind the windows, nothing more. When he had taken the pin from the grenade everything seemed to slow down, and the crack of the pistol shots were pinholes in an eerie silence, waiting for the explosion. Only two or three seconds, but time had slowed down. He swung his arm behind him, thinking only: My hands are too sweaty, it will stick to them like glue, I won’t be able to let go! And so he hurled it with extra, vicious force, straight at the goggled, helmeted chauffeur. But at the same moment the car lurched violently to the left, to avoid the still writhing body of the police constable. The bomb, thrown too hard, sailed over the car roof and burst on the road behind. And the car was gone, up the road towards Ashtown Gate and the safety of Phoenix Park.

  ‘Now! Get the second - that’s our man!’ Martin, Sean and two others seized the great, heavy, lumbering cart and dragged it one, two, three feet further out into the road. Not far, but enough to make the passage between it and the hedge narrow, perilous. The second car was nearly upon them but it was going slower and an appalling hail of bullets was rattling on to it - far, far more than had met the first. Sean felt a rush of fierce, savage pride - they would do it this time, it was stopping, it was caught! He pulled the pin from another bomb and threw it easily this time, with skill and without fear, like a cricket ball. The bomb hit the door pillar, smashing all the windows on one side, and the car lurched feebly, hopelessly into the right-hand ditch. More bombs were coming now, from the hedges beside the road. They burst all around the car, but none seemed to go inside it. The chauffeur climbed out, his gloved hands above his head.

  ‘We did it!’ yelled Martin, his eyes alight with triumph. ‘We got the bugger!’

  ‘That’s just the chauffeur!’ Sean yel
led back. ‘We’ve got to be sure of French. Can you not get closer and put a bomb right inside it?’

  ‘Surely.’ Martin grinned. Sean had thrown both his Mills bombs but Martin had one ready in his hand. He dashed out from behind the cart into the middle of the road. Sean ran after him, a yard, two yards behind, revolver in hand, thinking to shoot French if he saw him.

  Martin was still running when he stumbled and fell, nose down on the hard ground.

  Sean had played a lot of Gaelic football but he had never seen anyone fall like that, straight down on his face without trying to break his fall with his hands. And the body was immediately, suddenly limp, like a rag doll. The grenade rolled out of the fingers, round and round in a little circle, like an egg. The pin was still in it.

  ‘Martin!’ he yelled. But as he ran forward to his friend the ground began to hop and skip all around him like a cloudburst. There was an enormous noise everywhere. He looked up and saw the army lorry pulled up at an angle across the road, and all the soldiers firing their rifles at him.

  He picked up the grenade, bent low, and scurried back behind the cart, where two other Volunteers were shooting at the lorry with their revolvers. There was a great pain in his chest, but he had not been hit at all. ‘Martin!’ he said. ‘They shot him!’

  ‘Don’t worry about that, son. We’ve got French!’ said the man beside him. There was a gleam of exhilaration in the man’s eyes. Sean looked past the body of his friend to the shattered car in the ditch. How could they be sure? He pulled the pin from the bomb and hurled it, and this time it went straight and true, end over end through the air and in through the window. There was a huge echoing explosion and blast fragments came out of all the windows. That’s for you, Martin, he thought.

  The Crossley tender revved up its engine and came straight towards the cart. Sean fired his pistol once, twice, and then it jammed. His companion grabbed his sleeve, dragging him back. ‘Get away, boy! Come on, out of this!’