He reached the demonstrators excited and out of breath. Their numbers reassured him, their banners roused his admiration. He sought out the priest who was obviously in command.
‘Good evening, Father,’ he said. ‘I’m Father O’Connor of St. Brigid’s.’
‘A parish in which there has been a lot of activity,’ the other said. ‘Your assistance will be most welcome to us.’ They shook hands.
‘How can I help?’
‘By keeping your eyes open. You may recognise some of the parish children. Or their parents may be known to you. Your presence in itself will be an invaluable addition.’
‘What can I do?’
‘I’d like a priest with each lay contingent. It reassures them. You could take charge of the group over there. Come and I’ll introduce you.’
They went over together to some twenty men, members of a Branch of the Ancient Order of Hibernians. He was asked to assist them by scrutinising any children who might arrive as passengers. There was little conversation. After a polite exchange the leader turned to the others and said:
‘Now, men—a hymn while we’re waiting. Let’s have “Faith of our Fathers”. All together—One . . . two . . . three.’ They assumed grave expressions and lifted their voices in unison.
‘Faith of our Fathers living still
In spite of dungeon, fire and sword
Oh, how our hearts beat high with joy
When e’er we hear that glorious word
Faith of our Fathers, holy faith,
We will be true to thee till death
We will be true to thee till death.’
The gulls rose in alarm from roofs and the rigging of ships, and the other groups, as the voices rebounded off corrugated iron sheds and the walls of warehouses, took fire and joined in, swelling the sound of the second verse.
‘Faith of our Fathers, guile and force
To do thee bitter wrong unite,
But Erin’s saints shall fight for us
And keep undimmed thy blessed light
Faith of our Fathers, holy faith
We will be true to thee till death
We will be true to thee till death.’
The hooter of the one ship that was working across the river at the South Wall gave a long wail which swamped the voices and for a moment shattered all tonality. Its echo ran the length of the river, a groan of anguish which surged past Ringsend and the empty marshalling yards, spreading between the strands of Dollymount and the Shellybanks and Merrion, until it passed the estuary and became a ghost above the lonely lightships far out in the Irish Sea. Father O’Connor, unused to the procedures of the riverside, felt the sudden anger that mounted in the groups about him and wondered if it had been blown derisively.
There was the usual queue at the soup kitchen. Yearling spared the waiting women a glance, noting the jamjars and bottles and tin cans in their hands, then followed Mathews through the door of Liberty Hall and up the stairs to the second floor. It was dirty. The mud of countless feet had dried on the wooden stairway and on the landing. It smelled of people. Poverty, he had noticed before, had its own peculiar smell. A man’s station could be judged by what the body exhaled. Expensive odours of brandy and cigars; sour odours of those who nourished nature with condensed milk and tea. In an outer room were two men he recognised. One Orpen the painter, whom he knew well; the other Sinclair, an art dealer, who was said to love the fine things in his shop so much that he was constantly refusing to sell them.
Mathews excused himself and went into the inner office. Yearling approached Orpen.
‘My dear Orpen, what are you doing here?’
‘Some sketches,’ Orpen said. ‘Have you been to the food kitchens?’
‘No,’ Yearling confessed, ‘this is my first visit.’
‘Then let me show you these.’
Yearling examined cartoons of faces and figures. They wore skull-like heads and raised skeleton arms towards a woman who was ladling out soup.
‘How do you find them?’ Orpen asked.
‘Depressing.’
‘You should see the reality.’
‘Do you come here a lot?’
‘Every other day. One meets everybody here.’
‘So I gather,’ Yearling agreed. ‘I read a suggestion in The Leader that there should be a branch for intellectuals in Liberty Hall.’
‘Larkin is working night and day,’ Orpen said. ‘He expects to be summoned before the court any day now to answer a charge of sedition. They’re bound to convict him.’
Mathews returned to the room and joined them.
‘The children are on the next floor. Will you come up?’ Yearling followed him. The air was pungent with the smell from the cauldrons in the basement. They entered a room where about twenty children were being prepared for their journey. Some women were helping them to food. There were two men among them whom Mathews consulted.
‘There are pickets on the North Wall,’ he said, ‘there isn’t a hope of getting through if they are determined about stopping us. We’ve got to distract their attention by sending some of the children to Kingsbridge Station. The plan is to give them time to follow. Then we rush the rest of the children to the North Wall and try to get them aboard while the way is clear.’
‘I don’t think it will work,’ one of the men said, ‘there are thousands of them.’
‘Are you willing to try?’ Mathews asked.
‘Of course,’ the man answered.
‘So am I,’ Mathews told him. He looked at his watch.
‘If you will take the decoy party now,’ he suggested, ‘I’ll go with the others in an hour’s time. Later on your group can go by train from Amiens Street to Belfast and we’ll ship them out that way.’
‘You’ll need help,’ the man said. ‘Skeffington here could go along with you. The trouble is he’s a pacifist and not much good in a fight. He just stands still and lets them hammer him.’
Skeffington smiled.
‘Perhaps your friend . . . ?’ the man suggested.
‘Strictly a non-combatant,’ Mathews said.
They all looked at Yearling.
‘Not now,’ Yearling said. ‘I’ll go with you, Mathews.’
‘Good for you,’ Mathews said.
The children who were to act as a decoy were got ready. Yearling recognised one of them, a little girl. He went over and crouched to talk to her.
‘And how is Mary Murphy?’ he asked. ‘And is she still washing her clothes? And did she marry her sweetheart after all?’
The child became shy.
‘I don’t know, sir.’
‘Tell me another of your songs,’ he said.
‘What one?’
‘Any one,’ he invited. The child considered. Then she said:
‘“Applejelly lemon a pear”?’
‘That’ll be very nice.’
She drew a deep breath.
‘Applejelly lemon a pear
Gold and silver she shall wear
Gold and silver by her side
Take Mary Kelly for their bride
Take her across the lilywhite sea
Then over the water
Give her a kiss and a one, two or three
Then she’s the lady’s daughter.’
‘That’s nice,’ Yearling said when she had finished. ‘I like the lilywhite sea bit, don’t you?’
The child smiled at him. He went across to Mathews.
‘I know that little girl there. Could she come with our party?’
‘She is coming with our party.’
‘Good.’
He returned to the child.
‘Applejelly lemon a pear,’ he repeated. ‘I must learn that one. Tell it to me again.’
He went over and over it with the child, until the decoy contingent set off and they moved over to the windows to watch. The group of men about the doorway parted. The contingent passed through. From the height of the third floor they looked very small and vulnerable. The people wh
o passed by were indifferent. Soon they were lost to his view. Some twenty minutes later the jeering of the men at the door brought him to the window again. Several cabs were passing in procession. The familiar banners were being held through their windows and the horses were moving at a smart pace. Their route was towards Kingsbridge Station. The plan was working.
‘We’ll move off in fifteen minutes,’ Mathews decided, ‘get everything ready.’
They began their final preparations.
When Hennessy caught up with Rashers the incident with Father O’Connor was still weighing on his mind.
‘What did you want to speak to him like that for?’
‘Why shouldn’t I?’ Rashers answered.
‘Because there’s no luck will come of it—that’s why.’
‘I haven’t noticed much of that commodity lately anyway,’ Rasher said.
‘Things is deplorable,’ Hennessy agreed, ‘but why make them worse by insulting the clergy?’
‘To hell with the clergy.’
‘Are you not afraid he might turn you into a goat?’
‘I wish to God he would,’ Rashers said.
‘You have the beard for it anyway,’ Hennessy decided, after scrutinising him sideways.
‘I have. And what’s more, enough spirit to puck Father O’Connor in the arse,’ Rashers answered. His good humour returned. But only for a while. He was not a goat. It was highly unlikely he ever would be. He was simply a man without employment, without health, without a friend of substance to turn to in his native city. That was the sum total of the matter.
‘What the hell are we to do?’ he asked.
Hennessy had no ideas. Except to walk about and keep their eyes and ears open, to let the mind imagine possibilities, to fasten the attention on the moment and not to try to look too far ahead. His eyes, searching along the footpath, fixed on something.
‘Here’s a sizeable butt we can share,’ he said, stooping to pick it up. They examined it together. It was a long one.
‘God bless your eyesight,’ Rashers said. ‘I’d have missed that.’
They had no matches. Hennessy, storing it away for later, suggested doing the round of the public houses to see if a porter’s job might be going, or some work washing bottles. They passed the queue of children waiting outside Tara Street Baths to be scrubbed and fitted out with clean clothes. It engaged them for twenty minutes or so. Half-heartedly they went on with their search. They had no luck, but they continued to wander the streets.
‘Did you hear Mrs. Bartley and the family is going to America?’ Hennessy asked.
‘I did,’ Rashers said.
‘A brother of hers did well out there and sent her over the fare.’
‘She’s a woman was always good to me,’ Rashers said, ‘and I wish her the height of luck. I’m going to miss her.’
They begged a match from a passer-by and stopped to light the butt Hennessy had found. They leaned on the wall of the river, sharing it puff for puff. Hennessy remarked the procession of cabs on the opposite bank. Rashers was unable to see that far.
‘It’s the demonstrators,’ Hennessy told him, ‘the crowd that want the children kept in Ireland.’ He became conversational.
‘Supposing we were chislers again,’ he said, ‘being cleaned up and dressed in decent clothes and sent off to England to be looked after. We’d have no troubles then.’
Regretfully Rashers passed back the butt. There was about as much chance of becoming chislers again as there was of being turned into a goat. Hennessy’s vein of fantasy was beginning to irritate him.
‘We’d make a hairy pair of chislers,’ he told him.
The children walked in pairs with Mathews leading. He held his stick under his arm and strode purposefully. Yearling kept to the side. His job was simply to see they did not step out under the traffic. Three other men followed behind him and two more took up the rear. Yearling had counted thirty children at the beginning of their journey and threw his eyes over them at intervals during their march to count them all over again. Although nothing much was expected of him, he felt anxious and responsible. The little girl who had recited the street rhyme was talking to the child beside her, unconscious of any tension. If they attempted to use her roughly, Yearling decided, he would take a chance on violence himself.
At the Embarkation sheds they found a cordon of police waiting for them. Behind the police the demonstrators had spread out in a line across the road. Traffic was being held up and searched. There were hundreds of them. The contingent that followed the decoy had been easily spared.
Warning the children to behave, he went up front to Mathews.
‘It looks rather bad,’ he suggested, ‘do you think we should proceed?’
‘Personally, I intend to.’
‘Oh. Very well.’
‘But there’s no obligation of any kind on you.’
‘My dear Mathews,’ Yearling said, ‘please lead on.’
‘You’re quite sure?’
‘Glory or the grave.’
They moved again. Yearling kept to the steady pace set by Mathews. The police parted to allow them through. Then they came up against the front ranks of their opponents, were forced to a stop and quickly surrounded. Yearling, doing his best to shield the children, was aware not of individuals but of bowler hats and moustaches in unidentifiable multitudes. Bodies pressed about him and exhaled their animal heat. The priest in charge made his slow passage towards them. He was red-faced and trembling with excitement.
‘Who is in charge of these children?’ he demanded. Mathews stepped forward.
‘I am,’ he said.
‘And where are you taking them?’
‘You know very well where I’m taking them,’ Mathews said.
‘I know where you would wish to take them,’ the priest said, ‘but we are here to prevent it.’
‘By what right?’
‘By God’s right,’ the priest shouted at him. There was an angry movement. The slogans were raised and began to wave wildly. ‘Proselytisers,’ ‘Save the Children.’ Someone bawled in Yearling’s ear: ‘Kidnapper Larkin.’
‘I am not Mr. Larkin,’ he said.
‘You’re one of his tools,’ the voice said. ‘You’re all his henchmen.’
A loud cheering distracted him and he looked around. The cabs which had set out earlier for Kingsbridge were returning. They cantered in single file along the quay, their banners waving in response to those surrounding the children. At a distance behind them a group of Larkinites from Liberty Hall followed. Yearling saw the police parting to let the cabs through, then closing ranks again against the Larkinites. The situation was becoming explosive. He said so to Mathews.
‘These children will get hurt.’
‘Hold steady,’ Mathews said.
They both watched the Larkinites, who had now reached the police cordon and were parleying. An Inspector waved them back but it had no effect. The crowd about Yearling began to sing ‘Faith of our Fathers’ once again. Almost immediately the battle between the Larkinites and the police began. The priest became excited once more.
‘I command you to hand over these children,’ he said to Mathews.
‘Have the parents of Dublin no longer any rights?’ Mathews asked.
‘If you persist in refusing, I’ll not be responsible for what happens.’
‘But of course you’ll be responsible,’ Mathews said, ‘and if they suffer hurt it will be your responsibility also.’
‘Seize the children,’ the priest shouted to his followers.
Father O’Connor, dismounting from one of the cabs, saw the mêlée about the party of children but failed to distinguish the figure of Yearling. When his attention switched to the police he found the Larkinites were breaking through. He gathered his contingent about him and began to shout instructions at them.
‘Stand firm men,’ he ordered. ‘Stand firm for God and His Holy Faith.’
As the Larkinites broke through the police guard
he mounted the footstep of one of the cabs and waved his broken umbrella above their heads. All about him bodies heaved and tossed. Police and people struggled in several groups. He stood clear of the fighting himself but kept up a flow of encouragement for his followers. He felt no shame or hesitation. This was a battle for God.
Hands seized Yearling and pulled him away from the children he was escorting. He saw Mathews some yards ahead of him being manhandled in the same way.
‘Damn you for zealots,’ he shouted and began to fight back. The fury of his counter attack drove them back momentarily, but they were too many for him. They crowded about him on every side. Hands tore the lapels of his jacket, his shirt, his trouser legs. He lashed out blindly all the time until at last, exhausted, he fell to the ground. Mathews and the other men and the children had disappeared. He was alone in a circle of demonstrators. He felt blood in his mouth, explored delicately and discovered a broken tooth. Blood was running down from his forehead also, blinding one eye. He found his pocket handkerchief and tried to staunch it. He had no fear now of the faces leaning over him. A wild anger exhilarated him.
‘Damn you for ignorant bigots,’ he shouted at them, ‘damn you for a crowd of cowardly obscurantists.’
Father O’Connor saw the police gaining control once more. The Larkinites were driven back up the quays, his own followers regrouped and began to cheer. To his left he saw the priest from Donnybrook leading the children away. The demonstrators were grouped solidly about them. He got down from the footstep and went over.
‘We succeeded,’ the priest said to him.
‘Thanks be to God,’ he answered. He searched the faces as the children passed but could find none that answered to his memory of the Fitzpatricks. For the moment at any rate they were safe. He thanked God for that too and began to push through the crowd. They gave him passage and he acknowledged grimly.
‘Who have we over there?’ he asked, his attention caught by a dense ring of men.
‘One of the kidnappers,’ a man told him. He pushed his way into the centre and recognised their prisoner with horror.
‘Yearling,’ he said.
Yearling had difficulty in seeing him. The blood was still blinding his right eye. He dabbed again with the handkerchief and realised who it was.
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