‘Sit near this end here, Father,’ he advised.
Father O’Connor noticed his unfamiliar badge.
‘You are not a member of the Dublin Metropolitan Police, are you?’ he asked.
‘No, Father. Royal Irish Constabulary. We’ve been drafted in to give a hand.’
‘Will it be as bad as that?’
‘It could be bad enough.’
‘A terrible state of affairs,’ Father O’Connor said. His hands were trembling.
He took his seat. He had barely done so when the tram, turning the bend that led to Ringsend Bridge, ran into the outskirts of a riot. The driver stamped his foot continuously on the bell. They had got only a little way when the crush became so great that it brought the car to a standstill. The focus of attention lay somewhere on the route in front and at first no one seemed concerned about the tram. The sergeant dashed upstairs to survey what was ahead. When he came down he called his younger companion to him.
‘Is that a tram depot in front?’ he asked. He was new to the city.
‘It’s Ringsend power station,’ the Dublin policeman said.
‘Whatever it is there’s bloody murder going on around it,’ the sergeant said, ‘go up and look for yourself.’
Father O’Connor followed the young policeman upstairs. The street was jammed tight with people. In the distance a solid mass of police and people were at grips. Batons flayed about above a tumult of heads.
‘It’s an attack on the power station,’ the young policeman confirmed. They went downstairs.
‘Get the passengers off,’ the sergeant said to the conductor. But it was impossible. They stood in the tram and waited, surrounded by a wall of bodies, until pressure from far in front began to pack the crowd more tightly. It began to retreat, step by step. Hundreds of faces passed slowly by the windows as Father O’Connor watched. For the most part they were men with cloth caps and women with shawls. The movement backwards increased. They jostled and began to claw at each other. Then in a swirl of faces and writhing bodies the battle between police and rioters came abreast and surrounded them. Sticks and batons beat at each other in a desperate mêlée. He saw foreheads running with blood and sweat, torn hands and faces, hatred and brutality in hundreds of pairs of eyes. The thumping of bodies and sticks against the bodywork of the tram was terrifying. He stood in the inner doorway of the cabin, as far from either window as the small space allowed. The rioters fell back until he could see only policemen’s helmets through the windows on both sides of the tram. They were rescued.
‘Keep steady,’ the sergeant said, ‘we’ll be able to move soon.’
The tram driver went up front again, waiting for the police to be clear of the line. He stood ready, fear and eagerness to be away making his hand tremble on the control lever. The last line of policemen passed the conductor’s platform.
‘Now,’ the sergeant shouted, ‘get her away—fast.’
The driver made a clumsy and eager movement and the tram jolted forward, but after a few yards it stopped again.
‘Keep her moving,’ the sergeant shouted. He went up forward.
‘I can’t,’ the driver said, pointing. Several men, remnants of the battle, lay bleeding on the line.
‘Come on,’ the sergeant said to the young policeman, ‘you and I will get to work.’
‘I wouldn’t advise it,’ the young policeman ventured.
‘The street ahead is clear.’
‘The street is clear,’ the younger man agreed, ‘but the houses aren’t.’
The sergeant looked about him. They became aware, for the first time, of the tenements. On either side windows mounted above rows of windows, silent, watchful, menacing the now isolated tramcar.
‘You know more about this city than I do,’ the sergeant conceded.
If there was danger behind those windows two uniformed police alone in the street would be the right provocation.
‘Our lads will be back to guard that power station,’ the sergeant added, ‘we can clear the street then.’
They stayed in the car and waited.
‘No need for alarm now,’ the sergeant assured the passengers, ‘there’s plenty of help at hand.’
‘Here they come,’ the conductor called.
The police were returning in marching order. They too had suffered severely, Father O’Connor saw. Many of the faces under the protecting helmets were bruised and bloodied. The sergeant stepped off the platform to consult with them. The column came to a halt. They talked for some moments before anything happened. Then Father O’Connor saw one of the upper windows being raised. A missile, aimed at the sergeant, flew wide and shattered the glass in the tram. The passengers began to panic and the sergeant, breaking off his consultation, climbed back on to the platform.
‘Keep your heads down,’ he instructed, ‘use your coats to protect them.’
The police outside, turning their attention to the houses, found window after window opening and had to crouch back under a rain of bricks and bottles. Father O’Connor felt the glass tumbling about his shoulders and heard the volume of the ambush filling the street outside. After a while the noise of missiles gave way to shouting. He looked up to find the police had been driven off and the car was surrounded again, this time by the rioters. They were pulling the sergeant and the conductor off the platform. The driver and the young policeman had already disappeared. He got to his feet in sudden panic and shouted at the crowd.
‘How dare you molest these people. I instruct you to behave yourselves.’
A piece of brick grazed the side of his forehead and he fell back. He felt blood on the stiff, white ring of his collar.
‘Hooligans,’ he said, staggering towards the platform, ‘you must stop at once.’
Those nearest reached out to take his arms.
‘It’s a priest,’ they appealed, ‘let him off the tram.’
‘He shouldn’t be on it,’ an angry voice shouted.
‘None of them should be on it,’ another yelled. There was an angry roar of agreement. Nevertheless Father O’Connor was helped down. They did not handle him ungently. He began to push his way through them. What had happened to the two policemen and the other passengers he did not know. The seething crowd had swallowed them up. Rough clothes that smelled of dirt and poverty brushed against him but made way when his cloth was recognised. The crowd thinned as he reached its outskirts and he found it possible to take his handkerchief from his pocket to staunch the blood that was oozing from the cut on his temple. At a great distance behind him, the tramcar was being hacked to pieces.
In the morning, while he was at breakfast, Father O’Sullivan made a point of joining him for a cup of tea.
‘How does it feel now?’ he asked with sympathy.
A thin bandage surrounded Father O’Connor’s head. Cotton wool and sticking plaster made a bulge over the wound.
‘It’s nothing,’ Father O’Connor said, ‘some scratches and a little bruising.’
The blow did not matter. The gravity lay in the insult to his cloth.
‘Have you seen the morning paper?’ he asked.
Father O’Sullivan had. But he picked it up and found again, prominent among the accounts of strike incidents, the headlines Father O’Connor was referring to.
‘Assault on Clergyman
Priest Manhandled
Sacrilegious Incident at Ringsend’
‘It is heartbreaking to be insulted by our own flock,’ Father O’Sullivan said.
‘These people have always insulted me,’ Father O’Connor answered, ‘since first I came to work for them. When I organised what little charity I could they rejected it and assaulted my helpers. The truth of the matter is they have been taught by scoundrels to covet what is not theirs.’
‘I’ve never known them to lay a finger on a priest before,’ Father O’Sullivan said. ‘Perhaps it was an accident.’
It had been no accident. The brick had been thrown in answer to his command to them to dispers
e. The situation was deplorable. Father O’Sullivan did not understand its gravity.
‘There are new elements who will stop at nothing,’ he said, ‘and they were present in that crowd.’
The door opened and Father Giffley came in.
‘Are you well this morning?’ he asked.
‘Quite well, thank you.’
‘No ill effects?’
‘None at all—thank God.’
‘Excellent,’ Father Giffley said. He turned to address Father O’Sullivan.
‘The incident is causing quite a stir,’ he said to him. ‘I’ve been coping already with an outburst of clerical fury. They all seem to be adopting Mr. Larkin’s slogan: “An Injury to One is the Concern of All”. Father O’Leary of The Messenger wants to print an article about it and the editor of The Irish Catholic wishes to have the full details for editorial comment. I told them we wanted no more about it.’
‘That was best,’ Father O’Connor agreed.
He hoped Father Giffley would not see the morning paper. It lay open on the table. With unusual complicity Father O’Sullivan picked it up as he rose from the table.
‘May I?’ he asked Father Giffley.
‘Take it, John. The Dublin press has become a ragbag of lies.’
‘Thank you,’ Father O’Sullivan said.
He left, taking the paper with him. Father O’Connor looked after him with gratitude.
‘I am glad you agree with me,’ Father Giffley said.
‘I have no desire for notoriety.’
‘I should hope not,’ the other acknowledged. Then he added:
‘It was unwise in the circumstances to board the car at all.’
‘I had to get home.’
That was not quite true. But how could he give a true account of something so inexplicable.
‘It only serves to inflame the people,’ Father Giffley added. ‘In the past we have usually managed to say the wrong things but contrived to do the right ones—at least the more humble clergy, such as ourselves. In this unfortunate business we must not appear to take sides.’
He was being rebuked again—this time for being assaulted and humiliated. He would say nothing. Nor would he give interviews. He would bend his will to that of his superior.
‘As you wish, Father,’ he said.
The following morning a letter from Mr. and Mrs. Bradshaw sympathised with him and conveyed their warm concern, while one from Yearling expressed his feeling of deep guilt at not having insisted on leaving him home. They, at least, held him in respect and affection. He was not altogether forsaken. During the next few days he followed the newspapers with close attention and wandered through the streets, watching and listening. He saw trams running under police protection and squadrons of police parading through the streets. The papers told him that Mr. Larkin had publicly burned Magistrate Swifte’s proclamation forbidding a mass meeting in Sackville Street on the coming Sunday and promised his followers that meeting would be held. ‘I care as much for Magistrate Swifte’, they reported him as saying, ‘as I do for the King of England.’ But they also reported that there was a warrant issued for his arrest, that all the police had been mobilised and that police pensioners were being recalled to do duty as gaolers. The military, too, were in readiness and standing by. For most, the battle to be fought was between Capital and Labour. For Father O’Connor it was one between Godlessness and God.
CHAPTER THREE
Aloysius Hennessy, replete after a breakfast of fried bread and tea, counted the stairs as he descended lightheartedly from his room to the hallway and emerged from its darkness into warmth and sunlight. The bells of Sunday were sounding over the street, the time was wearing up to midday. At a distance ahead of him a figure hobbled in the same direction. The gait was unmistakable. Hennessy quickened his pace and caught up without difficulty.
‘Going to mass?’ he asked.
‘I am,’ Rashers said, ‘and damn nearly late, at that.’
‘Whereabouts?’ Hennessy asked.
‘The Pro-Cathedral, along with the Quality.’
‘So am I,’ Hennessy said, ‘I’ll walk along with you.’
‘After the week’s carry-on you’ll hardly want to take a tram, anyway,’ Rashers said. ‘How’s tricks?’
‘Things is looking up. I have a few weeks work with Cramptons above in the Park. Pushing an oul barrow here and there for them.’
‘That’s good,’ Rashers said. ‘I’m glad for the children’s sake. Are they well?’
‘All on the baker’s list,’ Hennessy said.
‘And yourself?’
‘Gameball,’ Hennessy said.
There was no enquiry about Mrs. Hennessy. Rashers had asked deliberately after them all in order to leave her out.
‘Have a cigarette,’ Hennessy offered, to show that they were still the best of friends.
They stopped to light up. The air was sultry, the sound of bells and mass-going traffic intermingled.
‘I like Sunday,’ Hennessy said, leaning on the railings to inhale his cigarette, ‘A man can take his legitimate rest.’
‘Come on,’ Rashers urged.
‘What’s your hurry?’
‘I’m bad enough without the addition of a mortal sin. We’ll be late for mass.’
They resumed, Hennessy, suiting his pace to Rashers, noticed how painfully slow it had become. He had money in his pocket and that made him want to step it out. The bowler on his head, though a bit too big, was a source of pride. He began to whistle.
Rashers, irritated, said:
‘Tie a bit of string around it—will you. You’re like a bloody canary this morning.’
‘It’s the bit of work,’ Hennessy apologised.
‘If you want to keep it, I advise you to give over the whistling. It’s unlucky in the morning. Whistle before your breakfast and you’ll cry before your supper.’
‘I had my breakfast,’ Hennessy said.
‘That’s more than I had,’ Rashers said.
Hennessy felt abashed. He was full himself and had not thought that Rashers might be hungry. He searched in his pockets and found a shilling.
‘Take that,’ he said.
Rashers stopped to examine the coin.
‘You’re a decent skin,’ he said, putting it in his pocket. ‘I’ll pay it back to you when the ship comes home.’
Hennessy waved this aside.
‘Time enough,’ he said.
But Rashers was moody. Ill fortune had been dogging him.
‘I always made plenty during Horse Show week,’ he explained, ‘but this time the tram strike ruined me. The gentry was too busy ducking bricks and jamjars to have ears for a bit of music.’
‘The commotion was terrible,’ Hennessy agreed.
‘It killed the trade,’ Rashers said.
They turned into D’Olier Street and met the first section of police.
‘The Larkin Reception Committee,’ Rashers said.
‘Do you think he’ll turn up?’
As Hennessy asked, the vista of the street opened to them. Rashers stood still. Sections of police were placed at intervals up its entire length, from the bridge to beyond Nelson’s Pillar. They had never seen so many policemen before.
‘If he comes down in a balloon,’ Rashers decided.
They made their way cautiously up the street. Others, on their way to twelve mass too, walked in front and behind them. There were the usual Sunday strollers, young men in their Sunday best, girls in their finery. The police were keeping them on the move, but otherwise there was no interference.
‘I’ll tell you this, though,’ Rashers added, when they had seen the full strength of the preparations. ‘If he does turn up there’ll be Holy Slaughter.’
As they joined the people who were thronging into mass, Hennessy fumbled and produced two pennies. He slipped one to Rashers.
‘You’ll want that for the collection plate,’ he whispered.
‘Thanks,’ Rashers said.
Hennes
sy removed his bowler, wiped it carefully with his sleeve and dropped his own penny on the plate. He entered ahead of Rashers, the bowler clasped piously against his chest. Rashers passed by the collection plate with an air of abstracted fervour and put the penny beside the shilling in his pocket.
After mass Hennessy wanted him to walk through Sackville Street again.
‘Not for a knighthood from the King himself,’ Rashers said.
‘I’d like to see if Larkin turns up,’ Hennessy said.
‘You’ve the full use of both your limbs. But poor oul Rashers would be a sitting target for any murderous bowsie of a Peeler.’
‘Ah—come on,’ Hennessy urged.
‘Go by yourself, with my blessing and full consent,’ Rashers said, ‘but Rashers is home by the back lanes.’
They parted. Hennessy adjusted the bowler and made his way back to Sackville Street. Others came with him. The crowd in the street was enlarged by the after-mass strollers. A cab driver who knew Hennessy reined in for some moments to pass the time of day.
‘You’re looking very spruce,’ he said.
‘I can return the compliment.’
‘Are you taking your constitutional?’
‘A bit of a ramble after mass to work up an appetite for the plate of pigs’ feet and cabbage.’
‘I’d ramble somewhere else,’ the cabman said, leaning down from his seat. ‘Do you see them stalwarts beyond?’
He meant the body of the Dublin Metropolitan Police drawn up in ranks outside the Metropole.
‘I’d want to be blind to miss them,’ Hennessy said, marvelling at their numbers.
‘Half of them bowsies is drunk,’ the cabman said. ‘I’ve passed six platoons of them already and the waft of bad whiskey from each made the oul nag stagger between the shafts. Do you know what some of them is up to?’
He leaned down even further and beckoned Hennessy nearer so that he could whisper in his ear.
‘Smoking,’ he said, ‘smoking on jooty. There’s a quare one.’
‘That’s shocking,’ Hennessy said.
‘Half of them hasn’t been in bed for three days and nights because of the riots. They’ve been bombarded from the windows with everything from flower boxes to chamber pots—full ones. The result is their nairves is gone. Every one of them is itching to get a belt back at someone—anyone. So I’d advise you to get out.’
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