1921

by Morgan Llywelyn

  Collins ushered Ned into a back room. They were gone for half an hour. Liam Tobin was not an entertaining conversationalist. There was only so much one could say about the weather, and he said it in the first five minutes. After that Henry read the newspaper clippings on the walls—many of them written by himself—pared his fingernails with his pocketknife, then stood staring out the window with his thumbs hooked under his braces. Collins had taken his last cigarette.

  At last the two men returned. “I have no objection to your seeing Dev,” Collins told Henry. “In fact, an interview with him about the escape is the very thing I want. Great propaganda value.” He shrugged his meaty shoulders. “But it’s up to him, of course.”

  “Is de Valera in Dublin?”

  “He is. I got him out of England disguised as a priest and arranged for him to stow away in the second mate’s cabin on the Cambria. He’s had several hiding places since he got back. Right now he’s at the archbishop’s palace in Drumcondra.”

  Henry caught Ned’s eye and winked. The archbishop’s palace. Naturally.

  AS they made their way across the city to Drumcondra, Henry remarked to Ned, “Collins seemed a bit stiff when he spoke of de Valera. Have they quarreled?”

  “Of course not. Mick’s loyalty to the Chief is total. But…”

  “But what?”

  “Well, there is a difference of opinion. As you know, from the executions in 1916 until the founding of the Dáil, the Irish government was in the hands of the IRB. They considered the president of their supreme council to be the president of the Republic. Mick says the IRB has now voluntarily ceded all its powers to the Dáil except one—the presidency. That remains with the supreme council. The Chief doesn’t agree. He says the Dáil’s constitution makes its president the president of the Republic as well.”

  Henry gave a low whistle. “I wouldn’t call that a mere ‘difference of opinion.’ ”

  “Och, they’ll sort it out, Henry. They’re friends; they’re not going to fall out over the simple politics of who bears the title of president.”

  “Politics,” Henry told his friend, “is never simple.”

  DE Valera was not in the archbishop’s stately residence, but in the gate-lodge. The archbishop was supposedly unaware of his presence. When Henry knocked at the door of the lodge a muffled voice asked his name and business. He gave both, plus the password Collins had supplied, and after a few moments the door was opened by de Valera himself.

  Henry’s initial impression of the man was that repeated imprisonments were taking their toll. His face was deeply seamed and his lips had narrowed perceptibly. Any lingering joy of life had been burned away from him as if in a crucible. Having just come from seeing Michael Collins, Henry could not help comparing the two. De Valera’s grave demeanor was in marked contrast to Collins’ joyous vitality.

  Ducking his head under a low ceiling, de Valera led Henry and Ned down a passageway to a small sitting room. An unmade cot stood against one wall; the windows were tightly curtained. There were only two armchairs, which de Valera insisted his guests take. He folded himself onto a straight chair that was too small for him and sat with his knees jutting out while he and Ned briefly reminisced about their recent escape. De Valera was not good at small talk. He soon turned to Henry and said, “If you want an interview we had best do it now. I won’t be here much longer.”

  “Is Collins shifting you again?”

  The thin lips tightened. “My movements are my own decision.”

  “Of course,” said Henry quickly, taking out his pencil and notebook.

  De Valera answered his questions but volunteered nothing. If Henry wanted more, he had to ask. In this manner he learned that Cathal Brugha had visited de Valera in England after the prison escape and persuaded him to come back to Ireland.

  “Why do you say he persuaded you? Were you not planning to come home?”

  “It was my intention to go straight to America,” de Valera replied.

  Henry’s pencil halted in mid-flight. “America? Whatever for?”

  “For the sake of the Republic, of course. We have to have support from America; she is the only country strong enough at the moment to stand up to Britain. I shall be going there in a few weeks in any case. I hope to meet with President Wilson and ask him to reconsider his position vis-à-vis the peace conference.”

  “That’s a mission for a head of state,” said Henry, watching de Valera’s eyes.

  The man whom Ned called the Chief gazed back at him impassively. But something glowed, far down.

  Aha.

  “What will you do if Wilson won’t see you?”

  “Go over his head and appeal to the people. We have great support among the members of the Irish-American community, you know.”

  “My own sister, for one,” Ned interjected. “I’ll give you her address. I’m sure she would be delighted to help any way she can.” He held out his hand and Henry passed him the pencil and a sheet of paper from his notebook. Ned scribbled down Kathleen’s address and gave it to de Valera.

  As he went over his notes that night in preparation for writing the article, Henry jotted down a possible opening line. “In spite of his worn appearance, Eamon de Valera remains unbroken and unbending.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  DE Valera’s escape and the subsequent explosion of publicity thrilled the Irish. Every newspaper containing “Dev” stories was snapped up as soon as it appeared on the streets. The people were starved for good news. Influenza was sweeping the country and times, as always, were hard.

  Influenza was also rampant in the British prisons. When Pierce MacCann, a member of Dáil Éireann, died in Gloucester Jail, the House of Commons decided to release the remaining Irish prisoners to avoid more unfavorable international publicity. The hunt for the Lincoln escapees was called off.

  Now that it was considered safe for de Valera to appear in public, Collins wanted Dublin to honor him with a huge civic welcome and the keys to the city. When preparations were well underway, Dublin Castle banned all public gatherings and brought additional soldiers into the city. Collins was unperturbed, but at de Valera’s request the ceremony was cancelled to prevent violence.

  De Valera did attend the second sitting of the Dáil, which was held in secret. Henry Mooney was flattered to be invited as the only representative of the press. De Valera was re-elected Príomh-Aire. Michael Collins was appointed minister for finance.1 Arthur Griffith became minister for home affairs; Count Plunkett, foreign affairs; Cathal Brugha, defense; Eoin MacNeill, industry; and W. T. Cosgrave, local government. Constance Markievicz was named the minister for labor, the first woman in the British Isles ever to hold a ministerial post.

  Henry chuckled as he wrote down her name, deciding the rebel countess would get an additional newspaper column for herself.

  For your scrapbook. Little Business.

  In further appointments Seán T. O’Kelly became speaker of the Dáil and Richard Mulcahy was made the chief of staff of the Republican Army. The Dáil also certified the issuance of Irish government bonds in the amount of £250,000, to be known informally as the Dáil Loan, and entrusted Collins with their sale.

  That night as he sat at the table in number 16, Henry remarked, “I’ve never seen a man able to do as many jobs as Collins. My mam used to boast that her father could do everything, but he was only in the ha’penny place compared to the Big Fellow. Collins is doing everything but running the army.”

  “My papa can do everything,” Precious said with confidence.

  Henry met Ned’s eyes across the table. “I envy you,” he said.

  “You know I can’t do everything.”

  “That wasn’t what I meant. I envy you a love that believes you can.”

  ON the eighth of April, Sinn Féin held a public Árd Fheis. Arthur Griffith proposed the name of Eamon de Valera for re-election as the president of Sinn Féin and he was voted in unanimously. De Valera spent the next several weeks catching up with his fam
ily and handling various political matters. This included signing, together with Arthur Griffith and Count Plunkett, a letter to Georges Clemenceau repudiating Britain’s claim to speak for Ireland.2 And as always, there were factions among the Republicans that had to be placated and held together. But he was more determined than ever to go to America.

  “When the time comes, Mick will make de Valera’s travel arrangements,” Ned told Henry. Ned was ill again, dizzy and pale and spending the day in bed under Síle’s watchful eye. Henry had come up after work to keep him company for an hour or so.

  “Detectives from G Division are watching the Chief in four-hour shifts,” Ned went on, “so the plan is to snatch him away during a shift change. I wish I could go with him, but Síle won’t hear of it. Besides, Mick has Harry Boland in the States already and he can look after him.” Ned’s sunken eyes took on a faint gleam. “I was at Vaughan’s Hotel with some of the boys the night before Harry left. A grand night it was, too. The last thing I remember is Mick and Harry and me standing on a table with our arms around each other’s shoulders while we sang, ‘Oh, the fighting races won’t die out if they seldom die in bed.’ ”

  Henry could well imagine the scene, but the reporter in him was intrigued by something else. “How does Collins know about the four-hour shifts?”

  Ned managed a grin. “Recently Ned Broy smuggled Mick into Detective Headquarters in Brunswick Street and he spent the whole night going through their files. When he left he took the detectives’ day book with him as a souvenir. He knows more about what the police are up to, minute by minute, than Dublin Castle does.”

  DE Valera set off from Greystones on the first of June, taking the boat from Kingstown to Holyhead. When he reached Liverpool, Collins’ men smuggled him aboard a liner bound for America. Most of his voyage was spent hidden away in the lamplighter’s cabin and fighting seasickness.

  While de Valera was at sea, Woodrow Wilson was at Versailles. In private he expressed sympathy with the plight of Ireland, but he was still unwilling to antagonize the British. On the eleventh of June he summoned the Irish contingent to inform them that after due study and consultation he still would not support their claim. Not only would Article 10 of the League of Nations stand; it was part of the peace treaty being drafted by the international conference.

  “Just wait till the Chief gets to America,” Ned told Henry. “He’ll turn things around, you’ll see.”

  Henry murmured, “ ‘And bloody Faith, the foulest birth of time.’ ”

  “Shelley. From Feelings of a Republican. I didn’t know you read poetry, Henry.”

  “I have plenty of time to read in my room at night.”

  Alone in my room at night. While life goes on elsewhere. I must be a fool.

  ONE June evening Henry returned to number 16 to find Precious lying on her stomach on the floor of the parlor. She was propped on her elbows and poring over the Irish Times. When she looked up, her face was suffused with excitement. “Uncle Henry, you’ll never guess what’s happened.”

  “I suspect you’re going to tell me. But should you not be sitting in a chair before someone comes in and sees you?”

  She snorted contemptuously. Without changing position, she read aloud, ‘The first nonstop aeroplane flight across the Atlantic has been successfully completed. Today Captain John Alcock from Britain and Lieutenant Arthur Whitten Brown from the United States landed in a bog on the Irish coast at Clifden. Their Rolls-Royce—powered biplane was fitted with long-range fuel tanks and made the 1,900-mile flight from Newfoundland in sixteen hours, twelve minutes. Sustained during the flight by coffee, beer, sandwiches, and chocolate, the men flew through fog and sleet storms.’ Can you imagine, Uncle Henry? Flying all the way across the ocean in an aeroplane?”

  “I can’t imagine,” Henry said honestly. “It must have been terrible.”

  “Oh, no. It must have been wonderful!”

  WITHIN weeks of de Valera’s departure, Michael Collins replaced Seán MacGarry as the president of the supreme council of the IRB.

  NED knocked on the door of Henry’s room and entered without waiting for a reply. “Are you doing anything?”

  With a sigh, Henry put down his pencil. “Nothing at all. Just trying to write.”

  “I’ve been trying to write too; I need to work on my novel. But my eyes…Anyway, I thought you’d like some good news. I just received this from my sister Kathleen.” Ned held up a letter. “She belongs to an organization called the Friends of Irish Freedom and they gave the Chief a huge reception at the Waldorf-Astoria. Afterward he held a press conference attended by all the major newspapers.

  “And listen to this, Henry. A reporter asked de Valera if he was an American citizen and he said, ‘I am an Irish citizen.’ When they insisted on knowing if he had renounced his American citizenship he said, and I quote, ‘I ceased to be an American when I became a soldier of the Irish Republic.”3

  That’s a revealing answer, Henry told himself. De Valera won’t officially relinquish his American citizenship, because it gives him a degree of protection from the British and an emotional toehold in the States. He’s very clever. Bold gestures on the surface, deeply conservative underneath.

  I wonder if he took his copy of Machiavelli to America with him.

  HENRY Mooney had become a frequent visitor to Herbert Place. The affection the Mansells felt for one another permeated the atmosphere; their warmth extended to envelop him from the moment he entered the door. He had become a Friend of the Family. “Everybody likes you,” Madge Mansell confided, “because your visits always cheer my sister. She’s been so lonely since her husband…you know.”

  When Ella Rutledge offered Henry one of her sketches, he had it framed and hung it over his bed where his mother would have hung a crucifix. But they did not have an “understanding.” They had not even exchanged caresses. Henry was Catholic and Ella was Protestant. An intimate relationship would face daunting obstacles.

  Yet Henry felt waves of almost overpowering desire for Ella, a passion that, he realized, owed much of its intensity to the fact that it could not be consummated. It fed in the dark spaces of his being, growing honeyed and heavy, a suffocating pressure at the back of his throat, a maddening distraction when he was trying to concentrate on something else.

  At Herbert Place Henry enjoyed a quality of life he had never experienced before. Hester Burgess was an excellent cook, though her repertoire was limited to English menus such as clear turtle soup, turbot with lobster sauce, roast mutton, pheasants and port jelly. The paneled library was redolent of leather bindings and fine cigars. Most of the volumes were English rather than by or about the Irish, because Edwin Mansell was an unabashed admirer of all things English. But as Henry sank into the depths of a comfortable armchair with a copy of Dryden’s literary criticisms and a glass of vintage port, he could not complain.

  Leisurely pursuits amidst gracious surroundings. A private telephone and an extensive wine cellar. A fireplace in every room and, on chill days, a fire in every fireplace. A way of life sustainable almost without reference to the outside world. No one seemed to worry about how the bills would be paid. The money was simply there; it always had been.

  How seductive it is, Henry admitted to himself. How can we condemn the beneficiaries of the empire for wanting to hold on to what they have?

  SNUG in their haven, the Mansells were confident of their future. But beyond the sheltering walls of Herbert Place the winds of change were blowing.

  Sinn Féin, through the Dáil, was putting in place the basic bureaucratic structures required by a new nation. Courts were being set up and a consular service organized. Departments were being established to address the problems of farmers and fishermen. A commission of inquiry had begun looking into industrial resources.

  Faced with the obstinate determination of the Irish to govern themselves, Dublin Castle’s reaction was draconian. Respectable citizens were stopped and searched in the street for no reason, and with no apology giv
en. Motorists had to carry passes and were halted outside the larger towns. Sometimes they were kept waiting for hours at gunpoint, even after they had proved they were traveling on legitimate business.

  Foreign journalists sent to cover an increasingly explosive situation reported to readers abroad: “Soldiers with fixed bayonets parade the streets of Dublin, restraining crowds of angry civilians. A machine-gun post has been set up facing Liberty Hall. Whole districts of the Irish capital are surrounded by military cordons. The quays are so choked with troops and armored vehicles that the port could be mistaken for the base of a formidable expeditionary force.”4

  The violence was not all on one side. G Division was the lynchpin of the British intelligence service in Ireland. Within two days of Michael Collins’ midnight visit to the files of G Division, political detectives bringing charges against Republicans began receiving warnings to back off. Sometimes the warning came from a civilian whispering in a doorway, sometimes from a party of Republicans paying a visit to his house. One G-man was simply told the time of the next boat leaving Ireland.

  At first the penalty for ignoring a warning was relatively harmless. An unfortunate detective was gagged and chained to the railings of the Brunswick Street police station, to his own humiliation and the great amusement of local street urchins.

  Then matters grew more serious. A detective called Patrick Smith arrested a leading Republican on the grounds of a dossier forged in Dublin Castle. In spite of several warnings, Smith refused to be intimidated into dropping charges. He was shot—shot suddenly and unexpectedly, by a mysterious team who knew exactly where to find their man. Other shootings followed, including that of Lee Wilson, now an RIC district inspector in Gorey, who had publicly stripped and humiliated Tom Clarke the night of the surrender. Another who met the same fate was the detective who had picked out Seán MacDermott for the firing squad.