1921

by Morgan Llywelyn

  One Sunday afternoon Ella remarked, “I just cannot see how it’s to end, Henry. Imagine the working classes trying to take government into their own hands. It’s so…precipitate.”

  This was the closest they had come to discussing politics, and he answered before he thought. “Precipitate? We’ve been trying for over seven centuries to get our freedom back.”

  “Well, impetuous then. And foolish besides. Consider all the benefits accruing to Ireland as a result of being part of the empire. The English have brought civilization to an ignorant, uncouth people who were little more than barbarians.”

  “Is that what you really believe?”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “Who told you it was the truth?”

  “Really, Henry. We learned it in school, of course.”

  “A British school. Ella, don’t you know that history is always taught by the conquerors?” That said, Henry quickly changed the subject. He felt they were on dangerous ground.

  THE Mansells were a close-knit family, devoted to one another. It was no wonder Ella had chosen to return to them after her husband’s death. Ava was a self-absorbed bird of paradise, but aside from her snobbery there was no harm in her. “She and Edwin haven’t had children yet because she’s afraid they would ruin her figure,” Madge once confided to Henry. A talented pianist, Ava often invited family and guests to gather around while she played and sang polite ballads such as “Speak to Me, Flora.”

  Madge, nineteen, was the youngest of the family. Although she loved foxhunting, she brought home an endless succession of injured stray animals and birds fallen from nests and nursed them back to health. Her contralto voice blended well with Henry’s bass-baritone when they gathered around the piano, but sometimes she sang naughty music-hall lyrics from London under her breath, making it impossible for him to keep a straight face.

  The longer Henry knew Edwin Mansell, the better he liked him. A confirmed Anglophile, Edwin possessed the best qualities of the race he admired. He was dignified and unfailingly courteous, as befitted a man certain of his place in the world. But Ella privately told Henry, “My brother’s not so self-assured when he goes to England. He resents the fact that over there, they consider him an Irishman.”

  “That’s all they know,” Henry said. “Edwin doesn’t bemoan and begrudge enough to be Irish.”

  When Edwin returned from London after his eye treatment Henry was his first visitor. Edwin was still wearing an eyepatch. “I have some sight restored, but not much. The eye needs to be shielded from the light as much as possible, so I shall continue to look like a bloody pirate. No harm, really. It rather puts the clients in awe of me.”

  “You intend to keep working as a solicitor?”

  “Of course, old chap—with the added benefit that I shan’t be expected to enlist in the next war.”

  “You think there will be a next war?”

  For once Edwin’s optimism failed. “Surely you’ve read the published text of the Treaty of Versailles. It has a war guilt clause intended to punish the German people by demanding enormous reparations that will bankrupt the country. Germany won’t accept that for long; no great nation would. The Allies haven’t guaranteed peace with the treaty. The War to End All Wars will simply be the cause of another war.”

  “You may be right,” Henry agreed, thinking of another, smaller nation that would suffer at least indirectly because of the Versailles Treaty.

  “I am right—though God knows I wish I weren’t. No sane man wants war. Oh, I grant you the idea of the noble warrior is glamorous. When the war first broke out, my friends and I rushed to enlist. After all, I was a Mansell, heir to a family tradition of military service, et cetera, et cetera. Looking back, I realize the only reason we were so enthusiastic is because none of us had any battlefield experience. We had no concept of what we were getting into. Neither did the girls we knew. They cheered us on like spectators at a sports day.”

  Henry said thoughtfully, “I suppose if a man knew he was immortal, he might actually enjoy a war.”

  “We thought we were immortal,” Edwin replied, “right up until the moment we faced the guns and the gas. God, the gas! And the grenades. You can’t imagine what grenades do to human bodies. Yet I actually saw men taking photographs of the corpses for souvenirs. They were absolutely fascinated by them—the more ghastly, the better. What makes anyone want to look at such things?”

  “The fatal attraction of violence,” said Henry.

  Henry applied to several newspapers for an assignment to cover de Valera in America. Maybe even get to meet Ned’s beautiful sister, Kathleen. The Long Fellow’s progression across the United States was a triumph. In New York’s Madison Square Garden he had addressed fifty thousand people, and seventy thousand people had gathered at Boston’s Fenway Park to hear him speak about the Irish Republic. Such events, Henry argued, certainly should be covered by a reporter from home. But “Sorry, we don’t have enough money to send you” was always the answer.

  In a way Henry was relieved. He was increasingly dissatisfied with the role of observer. In his secret heart, he craved action.

  He was not the only one. Without Dáil sanction, but with the full knowledge and approval of Michael Collins as well as the head of the army, Richard Mulcahy, rural Republicans were waging a campaign against what they called “the army of occupation.” In August a number of RIC barracks were attacked and their supplies commandeered. Constables who surrendered were released unharmed, but if they fought to protect their weapons, the Republicans fought back.

  In September the Second Cork Brigade, commanded by Liam Lynch, encountered a company of British soldiers on the road to Fermoy. Angry words were exchanged. During the skirmish that followed a soldier was killed. Next day two hundred British soldiers were turned loose on the little town of Fermoy. They looted and sacked the shops and terrorized the citizenry for hours—yet received no reprimand from their superiors.

  “There was a time,” Henry Mooney wrote in white heat for the Freeman’s Journal, “when these bully-boy tactics would have worked; when we Irish were cowed and submissive. But no more. We fought for our freedom in 1916 and we shall again. And again and again until it is won.”

  Ned Halloran was blunt in his appraisal. “This is more than political commentary; it’s a naked threat. If you’re not careful, they’ll come after you.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  IN September Dáil Éireann was proscribed by the British government. Dublin Castle called it “a parliament of felons.” Warrants were issued for the arrest of TDs.

  It was a declaration of war.

  Within days the DMP raided Sinn Féin headquarters in Harcourt Street and arrested two prominent party members. Michael Collins was working upstairs in the finance office. After a jovial exchange with one of the arresting officers—who failed to recognize him—he sauntered down the passageway and escaped out a skylight.

  Newspaper censorship returned. Henry started soliciting book reviews and fillers again to take up the slack in his income.

  Military aggression against civilians increased alarmingly. More private houses were raided, more people arrested on the flimsiest grounds or none at all, more innocent social gatherings dispersed at gunpoint. Markets were forbidden to advertise “Irish” produce. Farmers’ meetings were suppressed by soldiers with armored vehicles.1

  Nationalists responded with a grim exhilaration. “If they want a fight, we’ll give it to them!” was the oft-repeated slogan, not only in pubs and on street corners but even in the vestibules of churches.

  An English journalist voiced alarm: “Fears are being expressed that we may see a repeat of the Amritsar Massacre in Ireland.” The reference was to an event that had taken place in India on the thirteenth of April, when British government troops fired on a gathering of Indian protesters and killed 379.

  In October Sinn Féin held its autumn Árd Fheis in secret—after midnight. Once again it was covered by Henry Mooney. “I’m worried ab
out the split that’s developing,” he said to Ned afterwards. “There’s little doubt that Collins and Mulcahy want an all-out war to finish what was started in 1916, while the majority of the Sinn Féin executive is following de Valera’s lead: less militant and more political.”

  “Like you,” Ned remarked.

  Henry frowned. “I wouldn’t say that. No.”

  A sealed note delivered on a frosty autumn evening summoned Henry to Vaughan’s Hotel. After giving the password at the desk he was shown to a back room. Tightly closed curtains, air thick with cigarette smoke. Secrets soaked like patterns into the wallpaper.

  Michael Collins was deep in conversation with two other men, both of whom Henry knew. One was Desmond FitzGerald, who had been the officer in charge of the canteen in the GPO during the Rising. He was now the director of publicity for the Dáil. The other man, Frank Gallagher, was a journalist from Cork who had covered the home rule debates in Westminster while still in his teens. He also had been a Volunteer, and he and Erskine Childers were running the Republican Publicity Bureau.

  Collins greeted Henry with “We have a job for you if you want it.”

  “Can I take off my hat first?”

  “I’m serious. Now that the commercial Republican papers are banned again, the Dáil wants to circulate a newsletter to tell the truth about what’s going on. Arthur Griffith’s very enthusiastic about the idea. The intention is to publish reports and commentaries from prominent nationalists like Erskine Childers, and I suggested you’d be a valuable addition to the staff, Henry.”

  “Who do you have on board so far?”

  Indicating Gallagher, Desmond FitzGerald said, “Gally here will be the chief compiler, and I’ll serve as editor. My secretary, Kathleen McKenna, will do our typing, and Anna Fitzsimons, who works at Sinn Féin headquarters, will glean additional news items for us from the daily press. We’ve recruited one of the Fíanna boys to be office boy and general factotum.”

  “Dogsbody,” Henry muttered, making a mental note to be kind to him. “Where’s the office going to be?”

  “That’s a good question,” Gallagher replied. A slim man with raven-wing hair and an engaging personality, he was well liked in the journalistic community. “We’ll start off at Sinn Féin headquarters in Harcourt Street, but since the Castle will probably outlaw us after the first issue, that may not be a permanent address. And there’s one other thing—we won’t be able to pay you. We’ll have to operate on a voluntary basis.”

  “With an inducement like that, how can I refuse?”

  Collins gave him a hearty thump on the back. “Good on ye, boyo. Say, do you happen to have a smoke you can spare?”

  That night at number 16 Ned warned, “Mick’s itching for a fight, and this newsletter idea sounds like it will hot things up considerably. But you’re not a fighter, Henry. So take my advice and steer clear.”

  Not a fighter. A muscle jumped in Henry’s jaw. “Advice is only advice if it’s asked for, Ned. Otherwise it’s interference.”

  THE first issue of the new Irish Bulletin was dated November 11, 1919. Printed on a multigraph, the folded newsletter measured barely five by seven inches. The office boy addressed envelopes for the initial subscribers, a mailing list of around thirty, and then he and Henry took copies around to the other Dublin newspapers and to the hotels where foreign correspondents usually stayed.

  Henry could not resist sending a Bulletin to Limerick. “I’m working for this publication now,” he wrote to his mother, “and we feel that what we’re doing is very important.”

  By return post he received a painfully scrawled one-line note from Hannah Mooney. “Do it pay good?”

  At Henry’s request Ned sent copies of the Bulletin to his sister, Kathleen, in New York to distribute to the American press. She wrote back, “Your friend is a great success over here. He is being introduced everywhere as Eamon de Valera, president of the Irish Republic.”

  One evening Henry dropped into Phil Shanahan’s public house, another favorite haunt of Republicans. Sitting by the door was Peadar Kearney, author of “A Soldier’s Song,” the unofficial republican anthem.2 Henry was about to stop for a chat when a familiar face emerged from the shadows at the end of the bar.

  “Cousin Henry!” cried Dan Breen.

  Henry’s jaw dropped. “What the hell are you doing here? Don’t you know there’s a price on your head?”

  “And going up all the time,” Breen added proudly. “It’s my shout; what are you drinking?”

  They took their pints to a tiny table at the back of the pub. “How long have you been in Dublin?” was Henry’s first question, followed immediately by “Why did you not look me up?”

  “Och, I knew we’d run across each other sooner rather than later. Dublin’s just a small town stretched out, though it took me a while to realize that. But once me and Seán got acclimatized…”

  “Seán who?”

  “Treacy. Pal of mine. We’ve been up here a while now. It got too hot for us down the country, so the Big Fellow reeled us in.”

  “You mean Michael Collins?”

  “I do of course. We’re in his counterintelligence squad now. He thought our talents could be—how did he put it?—better employed under his supervision.”

  “You said it was too hot for you down the country. What’s been happening? The last I heard of you was Soloheadbeg.”

  “Soloheadbeg.” Breen shook his head. “That went badly wrong. We had expected half a dozen RIC men, so we brought enough of our lads to overpower them. But there were only two constables on guard, and when they saw they were outnumbered they panicked. Afterward we took the horse and cart and buried the gelignite in a safe place, but unfortunately the frost got to it and spoilt it, so it was never used.”

  “Whose orders were you acting on? Sinn Féin’s?”

  Breen glowered under his heavy eyebrows. “Those stuffed shirts in the Dáil want us to sit with our hands folded and take whatever shite the Brits dump on us. They knew nothing about Soloheadbeg; it was strictly army business. Anyway, we’d put the cat among the pigeons for sure, so we decided if we were going to be outlaws we’d be outlaws for Ireland. We devoted ourselves to tracking down spies and informers in Tipperary and giving them what they deserved. There’s more of them than you’d think. The British are spending money like water to crush the Republican movement. We saw terrible things, Henry—things being done to our people. There’s lots goes on in the dark in this country that will never see the light of day.

  “The country people were wonderful to us, though. They appreciated what we were doing. Many’s the night some patriot family gave us their warm beds so we could have a rest while we were on the run. Then one of our lads, Seán Hogan, was caught as he was leaving a dance. Now they’re shooting Republican prisoners ‘for trying to escape,’ but when they took Seán the practice had not yet begun. They hustled him off under guard to Thurles Barracks. They meant to hang him, because some informer told them he was with us at Soloheadbeg. Hang a boy not yet eighteen years old,” Breen said bitterly. He paused and took a deep drink.

  “We knew we couldn’t break him out of the army barracks; it’s a fortress. So we waited until they had him on a train bound for the prison in Cork. Eight of us intercepted them at Knocklong. It was a battle from the moment we boarded the train, Henry. We meant to get Seán Hogan or die trying. One of the constables handcuffed to Seán put his revolver to Seán’s head when we burst into their compartment. He was about to pull the trigger, but we shot first. In the finish-up one constable was dead and another dying. But we hadn’t hurt any passengers, and we rescued Hogan.”

  It was Henry’s turn to take a long drink. “What happened then?”

  “There was an inquest and the local jury refused to bring in a verdict of murder. They blamed the government for exposing policemen to danger and demanded self-determination for Ireland. But we were on the run for sure, after that. What with arrests and illness and one thing and another, eventually
there were just the four of us: me and Seán Treacy and Séamus Robinson and Seán Hogan. People helped us, fed us, hid us. We had more close escapes than you’ve had hot dinners. British soldiers scouring the countryside for us. Bluffed our way past ’em, several times. Some of the Irish police recognized us but let us go. Their hearts were with us, whatever about their heads.

  “Things got pretty difficult for us after a while. Walking through the mountains at night, with our shoes so worn out there was only a bit of sole and the laces left. Stumbling into bogs. Sleeping in barns and ditches. Trying to keep each other’s spirits up. Sometimes it felt like we were the only ones fighting for Ireland.”

  “You weren’t,” Henry assured him. “There’ve been plenty of incidents all across the country.”

  “Maybe we were just the coldest and hungriest. Anyway, we finally made contact with the Big Fellow and had a frank talk with him. He brought us up to Dublin and here we are, as busy as a fiddler’s elbow.”

  DURING the second week in December Sinn Féin party headquarters in Harcourt Street was again raided. A number of members of Dáil Éireann were arrested. Kathleen and the office boy managed to sneak the Bulletins’s files and equipment out and took them to the Farm Produce Shop in Baggot Street for the night. Next day the newsletter office was transferred to the basement of a house in Rathmines.

  On the nineteenth of December Lord-Lieutenant French was ambushed at Ashtown. He escaped uninjured, but one of his armed escort shot dead a young Republican.

  Michael Collins exploded into the basement office. Henry looked up from the table where he and Anna Fitzsimons were assembling the next day’s newsletter by lamplight. “Leave the hinges on the door, will you?”

  Collins was in no mood for humor. “Martin Savage was my friend—we were in the GPO together Easter Week. Now those bastards have killed him.” He slammed his fist against the wall. “We’d been planning that ambush for weeks; it should have run like clockwork.”