Of course there were protests. Catholics organised hunger marches - whole families were starving, something had to be done. But marches were declared illegal by the Government. Assemblies were broken up by baton-charging B Specials and RUC men. Yet the Government withdrew the order when the Orangemen wanted to march to commemorate the Battle of the Boyne - confirming what was already apparent, Catholics were second-class citizens to be set on at every opportunity. Riots occurred almost every day after that. Curfew was imposed at night. The RUC moved with massive strength into the Falls, armed with rifles and backed up with armoured cars mounted with machine-guns. Catholics erected barricades and cut deep trenches into the roads to hinder the movement of vehicles - and up went the cry again, "M-u-r-derr-eh" to alert the people of the ghettoes to yet another raid.
Some Protestants wanted the total annihilation of all Catholics. The United Protestant League declared its object as being - "Neither to talk with, nor walk with, neither to buy nor sell, borrow or lend, take nor give, nor have any dealings with Catholics, nor for employers to employ them, nor employees to work for them ..."
Matt recoiled from the Protestant hatred. His mother shrivelled to a shadow of her former self. In Dublin she had been a woman of some standing. She had carried authority in Riordan's businesses. Money was not plentiful but she had never gone short. But in Belfast she lived in her mother-in-law's house, used her mother-in-law's things, felt her mother-in-law's tongue. True, Liam Riordan sent money for their keep, but a lodger was a lodger all the world over. The grim bleakness of life in the ghetto appalled her, the regular raids sapped her spirit. She wept for her lost life in Dublin. She ceased to live, she merely existed.
Meanwhile, Matt searched for work. His eighteenth birthday fell during that first year, fell being an appropriate word for it can hardly be said to have been celebrated. Matt was a trained butcher and had worked in his father's shop. He could also run a bar, tap barrels, and do any number of useful things - and what he couldn't do he could learn, for Matt Riordan was neither lazy nor stupid. It seemed inconceivable that he would fail to find some kind of work. At least it did to begin with. Matt tried everywhere, even that bastion of the Protestant working-class, the shipyards. The foreman was so amazed that he laughed, but when Matt persisted the man's good humour faded and he called a gang of riveters to teach the boy some manners. The beating left Matt aching for days. It was the same at the rope works and the linen mills. Matt toured the meat market, hawking his skill as a butcher, but to no avail. Protestants would not employ him, and the few Catholic businesses were family concerns, barely able to support father and sons. Matt tried the pubs for work as a barman - only to meet the same story. He tried the docks, the railway, the construction industry - big firms, little firms he applied to them all, but apart from an odd day's work as a casual labourer, Matt found no employment at all. By the end of the first year he had accepted the inevitable - that it was well nigh impossible for a Catholic to obtain regular work in Belfast.
The Catholic Church denounced the situation. People flocked to mass, penitent in their confessions, and ardent with their prayers. Matt went too - but more and more his thoughts turned away from the Hereafter to the problems of now. Now was his misery, now was his hour of aching discontent.
So Matt brooded and smouldered. He watched his mother age ten years in twenty-four months. He compared the happiness of his boyhood with that of his new life ... and cursed his father for remaining absent on IRA business. Sometimes Matt succumbed to total despair. The black mood only lifted when his thoughts turned to Pat Connors, the man who had deprived him of so much. Resentment beat the anvil of hate, deprivation fuelled a furnace of bitterness. Matt craved revenge as others craved food and drink. Time and again he promised himself - "One day I'll get my own back ... one fine day!" And Matt lived for that day.
Sean Connors thought less and less about Matt Riordan with the passing of time. Why should he? - Riordan was in the past, it was the present which consumed Sean, every exciting moment of it.
He would have claimed to know Dublin well before he had started as a reporter, but after twelve months pounding the streets for the Gazette he really knew the city - and the people. It was impossible to walk fifty yards without being hailed by someone he knew - whether Old Seamus pushing his barrow, or one of Dev's Ministers. Of course his job helped him become well known, and being the only son of Pat Connors did him no harm - but those were not the only reasons. His size made him stand out, six foot tall and still growing; broad-shouldered, slim-hipped - and his looks helped, Maeve O'Flynn was not the only girl attracted by Sean's thick black hair and deep blue eyes. But mostly people liked his manner and his way of getting things done.
Word soon spread that he was looking for a shop, though very few people knew he was acting for Maeve O'Flynn, for the simple reason that Sean kept that information to himself. He planned to tell the world when he was ready.
Meanwhile he had taken to meeting people in Bewley's Cafe in Westmoreland Street, partly because it was convenient to talk over a cup of coffee, and partly to gauge the takings. Bewley's was the place. If the Widow O'Flynn was to succeed she would have to outshine Bewley's. So Sean watched and counted, and in fact it was in Bewley's that he first met Jim Tully, the financier. Tully had been in the IRA in the old days, along with Pat Connors, and although the link had never been strong it was enough to interest Tully in meeting Pat's son - especially when Sean's enquiries for a shop reached Tully's ears.
Sean had never met a better dressed man. Tully was about forty-five, his dark hair still glossy, his eyes keen and a smile always at the edge of his lips. He joked all the time and flattered outrageously - so much so that the corner booth at which they were seated soon became the focus of curious eyes. Not that Tully worried about that - instead he paused occasionally to turn in his seat and bow slightly, as if acknowledging silent applause. But his voice fell to a confidential whisper when it was time to talk business. "Now about this shop," he said. "They tell me you plan to buy the town, lock, stock and barrel."
Sean grinned, "And they tell me you've already bought it."
Tully's delighted roar threatened to bring the roof down. Sean laughed too. Talking to Tully was like being warmed by a fire. But the fire had burned others, or so Sean had been told. Tully's big plunge into property had been in the twenties. Until then many of Dublin's businesses and grand houses had been owned by Protestants, some of whom were sorely troubled by the sectarianism preached by Catholic politicians. Tully had played on their fears. "Who knows what will happen? The way Austin Stack talks you'll be needing the blessing of the Pope himself just to own a brick wall." Many Protestants had sold up there and then. Most who remained withdrew from public life and quietly minded their own business. Meanwhile Jim Tully acquired some fine freeholds ... at very advantageous prices. How much his reputation as a former IRA gunman influenced negotiations was something people speculated about - and those who did hinted at a far darker side to Tully's character than the one being displayed in Bewley's Cafe.
"Now weren't they right about you," Tully beamed across the table. " 'Jim', they said, 'leave that young Sean Connors alone. He's too smart for you, he'll have the best of a deal in no time at all.'"
Sean doubted that, but he was flattered and since two of Tully's sites sounded promising, they arranged to meet again the following week. That dealt with, Sean left Bewley's to hurry to his next appointment, and in the rush of the day forgot all about Jim Tully.
The Gazette office buzzed with the usual hum of activity when Sean returned at five o'clock. He started work immediately on the one good story he had dragged from the day, and had almost finished when he received an unexpected summons to go to the editor's office.
Dinny Macaffety stood with his back to the room, staring down into the street. He held a whiskey in one hand and a cigarette in the other. He was in shirt sleeves as usual, but his shoulders were slumped uncharacteristically. "Lord Bowley is dead," he said without
turning round. "You hear that, young Connors? Lord Bowley is dead, God rest his immortal soul."
Sean had never met Lord Bowley, but he knew who he was. Lord Bowley was the proprietor of the Gazette - or at least had been - lock, stock and barrel as Jim Tully would say. Not that he played any part in running the paper, living in Africa as he did. He had gone there years before - on a visit at first - then he had returned and sold up: the big house at Dalkey, twelve thousand acres of land, thirty miles of coastline, everything - everything except the Gazette. "I know I'm a sentimental old fool," he had told Macaffety, "but the Gazette is part of history, and a man shouldn't sell history." He had rambled on about the opportunities in Africa until Dinny Macaffety had sweated out the question "What happens to the Gazette, sir?" Lord Bowley had been startled. "Why, didn't I say? You run it, Dinny. God knows you've been doing that for years anyway - me being away won't make a ha'p'orth of difference."
So to all intents and purposes the Gazette had become Dinny Macaffety's paper. A new book-keeper had been appointed, a local solicitor joined the board - a copy of the paper was posted to Lord Bowley each evening, a modest dividend went his way every twelve months - but Lord Bowley had not inspected his one remaining investment in Ireland for ten years. He was happy in his new life and so was his son, who had long since confirmed to Macaffety that the arrangements would stand in the unhappy event of anything happening to his father. Now the unhappiest event of all had occurred ... Lord Bowley was dead.
"I'm very sorry to hear that, Mr Macaffety," Sean said. "The Da said he was a fine man, and I know you thought the same."
"And his son," Macaffety whispered to the window-pane, "his son is dead too. They were both killed in a train crash."
Sean felt uncomfortable. He couldn't really share Macaffety's grief. Lord Bowley was just a name to him, a portrait in the board room, a photograph in the back issues. But he hated to see Macaffety like this. Macaffety the raging tyrant was someone he had learned to cope with ... even to like ... but this ...
"The paper's finished," Macaffety said mournfully. "Bloody well done for. It will never be the same again." The last words slurred together - "never be the same again". Suddenly Sean realised the significance of Macaffety's earlier comments - His son is dead too. So who owns the Gazette now, Sean wondered? Macaffety turned and slumped back into his chair. His red face was more flushed than usual, making the pouches beneath his eyes swollen and bruised. Pain and anger marked his expression. He fumbled through the papers on his desk until he found what he was looking for. "Some damn lawyer in Nairobi," he muttered, then read aloud. "As Lord Bowley's only son and heir died with him in this tragic accident, the entire estate now passes to his Lordship's cousin, Lord Averdale in Ulster. Naturally he has been informed of this bequest and we are awaiting instructions. However, knowing of your long and happy association with Lord Bowley, we felt it our duty ..." Macaffety snorted and crumpled the letter into a ball. He looked directly at Sean for the first time. "It's all over, sonny. A new broom will sweep the Gazette, and some of us will be swept straight out of the door."
Sean shifted his weight onto his other leg and remained silent.
"You'll convey my apologies to your father," Macaffety said, tossing the rolled-up letter into a wastepaper basket. "There was no way I could foresee something like this."
Sean's expression must have betrayed bewilderment because Macaffety barked - "My God, you don't know what I'm talking about, do you? And you're a smart young reporter, supposed to know everything happening in Ireland. You've not even heard of Lord Averdale, I suppose?"
"No, Mr Macaffety."
"God help us," Macaffety swallowed a mouthful of whiskey, then sucked his lips. "You'll have gathered he's a Prod, I suppose, a real dyed-in-the-wool Orangeman. He'll be another like Lord Brooke, wouldn't employ a Catholic to save his life. I tell you, within a month this paper will be so Unionist that the Times will look like a radical broadsheet.
We'll be preaching the gospel according to Westminster again. How does that prospect strike you?"
Sean tried to answer but Macaffety overrode him. "We're out," he said, pointing a finger. "I'm out because of fifteen years of editorials complaining about the British in Ireland. And you're out for being your father's son. Averdale will have his own people in here. He'll not want young Jackeens from the Quays. He'll want educated young Prods straight out of Trinity. We'll have the Protestant Ascendancy all over again."
Sean finally found his voice, "Am I being fired, Mr Macaffety?"
Macaffety threw his hands in the air. "I'm telling you what to expect, that's all. Ask your Da, he'll tell you the same. If you've the sense I think you have you'll look around and see what else you can find. Understand?"
Sean heard, which wasn't quire the same as understanding. His dismay deepened. Life at the Gazette was all he could imagine, all he wanted - especially now everything was so settled. He enjoyed living in Ballsbridge, he enjoyed the Widow O'Flynn, and looked forward to seeing her more often when she got her tea-rooms. Now to be told it was all over ...
"Send Pat Andrews up, will you?" Macaffety said, by way of dismissal.
Sean turned blindly for the door. It's so unfair, he thought bitterly. Then he pushed the self-pity aside. After all, it was the way of the world. A man without assets was like a cork on the sea, swept one way, then another. I must get some assets, he vowed. Then I can be my own man, free of all others. But Sean's determination was touched with envy. Some people were born lucky, he thought. Imagine inheriting a newspaper! This Lord Averdale was probably rich already. Assets go to assets, Sean mourned, the rich get richer. He returned to his desk and sat deep in thought - but in particular he wondered what manner of man Lord Averdale might be.
Lord Averdale was a proud man, and with good reason - the history of his family was largely that of Ulster, and, as Lord Averdale frequently asserted, no man could have a more illustrious history than that. The Averdale record stood for itself and anyone with the temerity to question it was likely to hear a recital of events from 1610 onwards from his Lordship himself.
Sixteen ten when the first Averdale set foot in Ireland. Damn all happened before that - just a lot of Irish chieftains beating hell out of each other. That's how the Plantation came into being - it was the only way to bring peace to the place. The Plantation was a high-risk business though, which is why the City of London became involved. Hard-headed businessmen were needed to settle a place like Ulster. So City businessmen formed the Honourable Irish Society of 1610 and took on the job of civilising Derry. First thing they did was to change the name to Londonderry - then they divided the land between themselves and sold it off to Scottish and English settlers - not to the Irish of course, who had no money, besides that shiftless lot caused the mess in the first place. The Crown kept ten percent of the land - rough hillsides for the most part - and rented that out to the Irish, who had no choice but to take it.
More than 13,000 settlers came in after 1610. They faced a hard life - not just to establish decent farms, though that was hard enough, but in keeping the Irish at bay. Catholic Gaelic mobs slaughtered thousands of innocent Protestant settlers in 1641. Samuel Averdale's own wife was dragged from her bed and murdered hideously, and so were dozens of her friends in a year of terror which only ended when Cromwell brought his army over to restore order. But no Protestant ever forgot what happened in 1641 - no more than they would forget what happened in Londonderry forty years later, when the Catholics rose again.
James III was King of England then - a Catholic King replacing a Protestant Protector. Not that James ruled for long. In 1688 came news of revolution in England - the Protestant William of Orange was winning his fight for the throne. But the situation in Londonderry was already critical by then, as Gaelic Catholics ran riot - and tension increased tenfold when King James sent Lord Antrim's Redshanks, a Catholic regiment, to garrison the city. The people of Londonderry were appalled - already surrounded by hostile Catholics, now the King sent
more of the Papist devils! But the King was the King, and had to be obeyed. So with fear in their hearts, the Protestant citizens of Londonderry resigned themselves to complying with the King's wishes, when suddenly the unexpected happened. A gang of thirteen apprentice boys seized the keys of the city and slammed the gates on Lord Antrim's Redshanks. The siege of Londonderry was about to begin - a siege which intensified some months later when King James himself arrived at the gates and was refused entrance. William of Orange sent troops to relieve the city, but his ships arrived at the mouth of the Foyle to find that the besieging army had blocked the river with a wooden boom. The ships could proceed no further. Loaded with desperately needed supplies, heartbreakingly close to the city walls, they anchored and waited.
Inside the city, 30,000 Protestants were starving to death. Dogs, cats, mice, even candles became a familiar diet - until supplies even of those ran out. Deaths mounted, sickness spread, and with it fear of the plague. Antrim's besieging army delivered their terms for ending the siege - and received the famous reply - "No Surrender!" - defiant words which live forever in the hearts of all Irishmen - Protestant and Catholic alike.
More ships arrived from William of Orange - but the boom across the river held. The situation within the city grew ever more desperate - until, on 28 July 1689, the ships ran the gauntlet. Defying the massed batteries of the besieging army's shore mounted guns, the ships sailed for Londonderry. They smashed the boom. Shore batteries blazed furiously, but the ships sailed on, replying with cannon and musket from every plank above the water-line. The shore-batteries roared again and again. Still the ships came on, staggering when hit, some ablaze from stem to stern, but still afloat - until they reached the quay below the city. The siege of Londonderry was over at last.
Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1 Page 96