For much of the afternoon they had the house to themselves. Edwin was at his law office. Ava and Madge chatted vivaciously while a maid served refreshments, then excused themselves to go shopping.
When they were alone, Ella and Henry began the conversational exploration of two people getting to know one another. She spoke of art and the theater, and visits to relatives in Belfast and London. Henry learned that the Mansells also owned property in County Roscommon. Ella described their country house, Beech Park, as “a sprawling pile with bats in the top story. If you’re partial to dry rot and damp wallpaper, it’s a grand place.”
“Is it haunted?”
“Edwin’s thinking of charging the ghosts rent. He hardly ever goes down—Dublin is his life. But Madge and I love Beech Park. She’s a member of the local hunt, and we both fish.”
“Do you now?” Henry said delightedly. “I’m something of an angler myself.” He told her his favorite fishing stories, then expanded to describe his life in the west of Ireland, though he mentioned his siblings only casually and his mother hardly at all. Next he dredged his memory for anecdotes about the journalist’s trade, which led Ella to remark, “I read all the papers. I have to be quick, though, before Madge puts them in the bottom of her cages. This month she’s a canary breeder, you see. Last month she was going to be an opera singer.”
Henry lost all sense of time and was astonished to hear the clock strike five. He found one final excuse to linger. “Before I go, I wonder if you would give me the benefit of your advice on a rather delicate matter?”
“If I can.”
“My friend Ned has asked me to buy a Christmas present in his name for his wife. I confess I have no idea what to look for. Nothing too intimate, since I must be the one who selects it.”
Ella nodded understandingly. “Tell me about her; what sort of person is she?”
I should have prepared some sort of answer to that question long ago. How can I possibly describe Síle to this woman? A lady like Ella could never understand a girl who was a whore in Monto before Ned married her. But without giving that background, how can I explain how far Síle’s come? How can I convey how valiant she is, how spirited…how—
“Is Mr. Halloran’s wife very feminine?” Ella prompted.
Henry said the first thing that popped into his head. “She can shoot as well as a man.”
“Really? She hunts, too, I suppose?”
“Hunts?”
“Rides to hounds. Perhaps Mrs. Halloran would appreciate new leather gloves and a riding crop.”
The image struck Henry as irresistibly funny. “No sane man would put a riding crop in Síle Halloran’s hand,” he told a mystified Ella Rutledge. “Think of something else.”
“Well…Spanish lace mantillas are becoming popular, and they’re always flattering. Might one of those suit?”
“The very thing! And if she really likes it, I’ll take you to dinner in the best restaurant in Dublin.”
TWO days before Christmas Henry received a letter from London in Michael Collins’ handwriting. “Myself and three colleagues have hopes of meeting the American president, Woodrow Wilson, here. He is due in London for a short visit before attending the peace conference in Paris. What a propaganda coup it will be if we win Wilson’s pledge of support in advance. Don’t write anything about it yet, but if we are successful, I promise you an exclusive account when we return. M. C.”2
On Christmas Eve everyone at number 16, even Henry, went to Mass, then came back to the house to celebrate with punch and hot mince pies and open their presents. Precious was thrilled with a kaleidoscope from Síle and Ned. Henry gave her a pair of leather gloves. “A friend of mine gave me the idea for these, Little Business. They’re too big for you now, but save them until you’re older. They’re for horse riding.”
“Oh, Uncle Henry!” The child buried her face in the soft leather and took a deep sniff. “Don’t they smell gorgeous?”
Lifting a pale gray lace mantilla from its box, Síle held it up for all to admire. From Henry’s point of view, it covered her face with a silken cobweb. Like Ella’s veil. “This is lovely, Henry. I’ve never had anything like it.”
“It’s from Ned,” he said quickly.
The third of January brought another note from Collins, who was back in Ireland. “Forget that story about Wilson. He refused to see us. I even suggested kidnapping him, but no one took me seriously, which is probably just as well. I have asked the Lord Mayor of Dublin to grant him the Freedom of the City in hopes that it will give him some feeling of connection with Ireland. P.S. You’ll be glad to hear that the British have just released Count Plunkett.”
LATE at night on the seventh of January yet another note from Collins was thrust through the letter box at number 16. “Tonight there was an important meeting of the Sinn Féin executive, or at least as many of us as are not in prison. We have decided to convene an independent constituent assembly for the Irish nation. The new body is to meet in the Round Room of the Mansion House at three-thirty in the afternoon on the twenty-first of this month.3 It will be open to every elected representative of the Irish people, no matter what their party. You are invited to attend as my personal guest.”
As Henry held the paper in his hand, a thrill ran through him. Our own parliament—a chance to build a new nation and get it right, without all the old colonial baggage!
On the tenth of January, the British appointed Winston Churchill as secretary of state for war.
That same night Henry called at Herbert Place to take Ella Rutledge to the best restaurant in Dublin, her promised reward for suggesting the lace mantilla. As he waited for her in the front hall he remarked to the parlor maid, “Did I not hear Mrs. Rutledge call you Tilly?”
The girl dropped her eyes modestly. “You did, sir.”
“Tilly what?”
“Burgess, sir.”
“That’s not an Irish accent.”
She cast him a swift glance, then looked down again. “No, sir. Leeds. Me family comes from Leeds. Mister Edwin brought me mum over to cook for him. The rest o’ the staff here’s Oirish, but we’re Henglish.”
“Your mother’s name is?”
“Mrs. Hester Burgess, sir.”
“And do you like living in Ireland?”
The girl was so shocked at having a guest inquire about the feelings of a servant that she forgot to keep her eyes lowered. “Oh, I do, sir! ’Deed I do. We’ve made ever so many friends, and—” She stopped in confusion.
“That’s all right, Tilly. I’m glad to hear you’ve made friends here. I hope you’ll consider me one of them.”
Henry took Ella to Jammet’s, at the corner of Andrew Street and Church Lane, which advertised as “Dublin’s Only French Restaurant.” The main dining room contained famous allegorical paintings of the Four Seasons. Henry showed off by introducing Ella to several of the well-known artists and writers who patronized the place. She acknowledged each politely, but as the evening wore on he realized that she was unimpressed by fame. “I don’t think life should be a competition to see who can make the biggest name for themselves,” she told him. “I try to paint myself, but I think the people who appreciate art—or books, or music—are every bit as valuable as the artists. I think that’s why God made man—to appreciate his creation.”
Late in the evening Henry excused himself and went to the toilet. He came back to find her sitting, as she often did, with her chin propped on her left hand and her index finger tucked behind the curve of her jawbone. Seen thus, pensive, with dreaming eyes, she struck him as inexpressibly beautiful.
ON the eighteenth, the first formal session of the International Peace Conference was convened at Versailles.
On the twenty-first of January, 1919, Dáil Éireann—the Assembly of Ireland—met in inaugural session. A large crowd gathered outside the Mansion House. Some were well-dressed businessmen or fashionable ladies drawn by curiosity to interrupt their day’s shopping, but the majority of the spectators
belonged to the shabby working class of Dublin. They were keyed up and tense, but behaved impeccably. Thrilled by the solemnity of the occasion, they matched it with their own dignity. A squad of the DMP in capes and spiked helmets stood at the gates but made no effort to interfere.
In the gallery of the Round Room, journalists and observers from several European countries rubbed elbows with an overflow of spectators.4 Although most had to stand, a few chairs were provided at the front for women. The usher who escorted Henry to the gallery gestured to one of these. “Please be seated, sir. Mr. Collins expressly ordered that a seat be saved for you.”
Henry shook his head firmly. “Not at all. Not while there’s a lady who doesn’t have a chair.” He joined his standing colleagues. Soon he was explaining to a Spanish reporter the differences between the assembly and the British parliament. “Even the titles are new. Assembly members are to be called Dáil deputies rather than members of parliament. That’s Teachtai Dála in Irish, so we’ll have TDs rather than MPs. It’s a small thing but it matters…In the heel of the hunt, everything matters.”
The opening prayer was read in Irish by Father O’Flanagan, and then the roll call began. All of Ireland’s elected representatives had been invited to take part.5 Those belonging to the Unionist Party and the Irish Party chose not to attend, however. Their names—including that of Sir Edward Carson—were called out with the others. After a suitable pause, the clerk of the day marked each man As lathair—absent. Many of the Sinn Féin representatives were absent as well. Of the seventy-three Republicans who had been elected, thirty-six were in jail. For each of them a colleague cried out, “Fé ghlas ag Gallaibh”—imprisoned by the foreign enemy.
Someone else also answered for Michael Collins, to Henry’s surprise. Imagine him not being here today of all days. What could be more important than this?
The assembly, with Cathal Brugha presiding, was conducted in Irish. For centuries the policy of the British government had been to eradicate the culture of the conquered country, so few if any of the participants had been born into a household where Irish was the first language. They were for the most part members of the Gaelic League founded by Douglas Hyde, and had learned their native tongue in adulthood. Therefore they spoke carefully and to the point.
Henry was embarrassed that he only understood a few words. God, I wish Ned was here. Pádraic Pearse made certain his students were fluent in Irish, and he was right, too. The language is the heart of any people, and they stole ours from us: stole the hot poetic Gaelic heart from us. Damn them. Damn them.
The session lasted only until five-thirty in the afternoon, but during those two hours the Dáil adopted an Irish Declaration of Independence, ratified the 1916 Proclamation of the Irish Republic, and elected Eamon de Valera president—Príomh-Aire—of Dáil Éireann. In de Valera’s absence, Cathal Brugha was appointed acting president.
“There is a feeling in this room today unlike any I have ever experienced,” Henry wrote in his notebook, more for himself than for publication. “De Valera has brought physical-force Republicans and nonviolent Griffith monarchists together in one fold. No matter how divergent their political philosophies, they have one point of agreement: Ireland. A sense of kinship fills the hall. It is evident in the exchange of warm smiles between old adversaries. All present share a deep and radiant joy, knowing themselves privileged to attend a momentous birth.”
A provisional constitution for the Dáil passed unanimously. Three men were appointed as delegates to the International Peace Conference once Ireland was admitted: Count Plunkett, Arthur Griffith, and Eamon de Valera—the latter two still in British jails. A democratic program proposed by the new Dáil was read, and the assembly was adjourned to thunderous applause.
Before they left the building, journalists were given copies in English of the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution, and the Democratic Program. Henry asked for a second set, one he would fold away and cherish with the copy of the Proclamation he had taken from a wall during Easter Week, 1916. Treasures for my grandchildren. It was the first time he consciously had thought of grandchildren.
Henry had persuaded John Healy to print his report of the session in the Irish Times—“As long as you don’t say anything too blatantly nationalistic, Mooney.” Coverage of the new Dáil by the Times would amount to a tacit recognition of the Irish Republic by Ireland’s most imperial newspaper—a victory won by the pen rather than the sword.
From the Mansion House Henry hurried straight to the Times offices on D’Olier Street—which is how he happened to be on hand when a far different story came over the telegraph. John Healy read aloud to the newsroom: “ ‘Soloheadbeg, County Tipperary. Today Dan Breen, Seán Treacy, and several other Republicans ambushed and killed two RIC constables. They seized a cartload of gelignite the constables were guarding.’ ”
“Fuckin’ hell!” cried one of the reporters. “That crowd’s going to make bombs!”
With the founding documents of the new nation in his hand, Henry tried to absorb the news. Dan Breen…bombs: the thrill of the Dáil was replaced by a chill of apprehension.
The next day he went to the Bleeding Horse Pub on Camden Street, a favorite meeting place for Republicans. The events of the twenty-first were on everyone’s lips. Henry sat in a corner unobtrusively taking notes. “I guess Dan Breen showed the bloody Brits!” exclaimed a round-faced youth, pounding his fist on the bar. “Sinn Féin isn’t going to do anything—politicians never do anything but feather their own nests. It’s up to the Republican Army to prove the people of this country won’t lie down and roll over for the bloody Crown anymore.”
“We showed the British something, all right,” commented someone else. He had a laborer’s hands and an alcoholic’s complexion, but he spoke like an educated man. “Yesterday while our new parliament convened in Dublin we were behaving like outlaws down the country. Which speaks for Ireland?”
A tall man with deep-set eyes said, “The Republicans speak for Ireland.”
“Which Republicans? Those in the Dáil or those in Breen’s Tipperary Brigade?”
Henry closed his notebook.
One war barely over, and now this. Through the peace conference we’ll get the Republic internationally recognized without bloodshed; we just have to be patient a little longer. Dan’s an intelligent man. Maybe I can reason with him and persuade him to reason with the others.
But Dan Breen had become a will-o’-the-wisp, constantly on the run between safe houses. A reward of a thousand pounds was being offered for his capture. No one admitted to knowing where he was. Hannah Mooney and Honora Breen were close friends; that link should be sufficient to put Henry in touch with Breen. Yet he could not bring himself to pick up his pen and ask a favor of his mother.
The new Dáil sent Seán T. O’Kelly to Paris as an envoy to secure admission to the peace conference for the three Irish delegates—which would put pressure on Britain to release de Valera and Griffith from prison. “Ireland’s very first diplomat is on his way to the City of Light,” Henry exulted in the Evening Herald. “If America upholds our claim at the conference, the other nations are bound to be swayed in our favor.”
When they met in the Oval Bar the night the story was published, Matt Nugent cautioned, “Don’t pin too many hopes on America, Henry. After the Rising there was a huge wave of pro-Irish sentiment among the people. Our revolution reminded them of their own. But Britain’s been bombarding the Americans with anti-Irish propaganda lately, and some of it’s bound to stick. The influence of the printed word—you know.”
Henry nodded.
Nugent went on, “I’ve been covering the international news for a long time now, and that includes the States. So I happen to know that one of our most influential supporters over there is a member of the Supreme Court of New York, a man called Daniel Cohalan. Cohalan has a lot of friends in the IRB. He was also an exceedingly vocal opponent of Woodrow Wilson’s nomination for president. Anything Cohalan’s for—such
as independence for Ireland—is likely to get a cold shoulder from Wilson. Added to that, since the Armistice Paris has been awash with British delegations, and you can bet tuppence ha’penny they’re whispering against us in every ear. I tell you, there’s a fierce lot of political maneuvering going on behind the scenes.”
“As always,” Henry sighed.
SEÁN O’Kelly sent letters to Georges Clemenceau, the president of the International Peace Conference, and to every delegate, asking that they support the democratically expressed desire of the Irish people for independence. Paris was swarming with journalists clamoring for information about the new Irish Republic. For the first time since the Act of Union, the Irish benches in Britain’s House of Commons were almost empty.
In Ireland, postwar gaiety was reaching a climax. Dublin heard the first wild, free notes of the Jazz Age. Among those who could afford to do so, it became almost an obligation to forget care and plunge into pleasure. Stores thronged with shoppers. Hemlines crept upward. An endless round of dances, parties, race meetings. New motorcars raced down narrow country lanes, terrifying sheep and cattle.
Together with the officers of the British regiments stationed in Ireland, the Ascendancy partied as if there were no tomorrow.
Chapter Twenty
March 4, 1919
OVER PRESIDENT WILSON’S OBJECTIONS U.S. HOUSE OF
REPRESENTATIVES VOTES 216–45 TO REQUEST PARIS PEACE
CONFERENCE ACCEPT IRELAND’S CLAIM TO SELF-
DETERMINATION
UNITED STATES SENATE PASSES SIMILAR MOTION
Dateline: Paris
RECOGNITION FOR IRELAND DENIED
“I FEEL like I’ve been personally betrayed,” Henry told Síle. Since the night she visited him in his room some of her walls were down. There was still a distance between them that he dared not overstep, but she seemed more comfortable with him. Sometimes, as now, she invited him up to the attic apartment to read to Precious before bedtime. Afterward she lingered talking with him in the sitting room.
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