1921

by Morgan Llywelyn

  “By ‘we,’ I assume you mean your assassination team?”

  Collins favored Henry with a ferocious scowl. “You disapprove of my counterintelligence squad?”

  “I was just inquiring.”

  “I told you a long time ago we were going to fight the enemy with their own weapons. Look how many of our people they’ve killed.”

  “Those weren’t assassinations, Mick.”

  “No? An assassination is a political murder. Think back, Henry. When the Proclamation was signed, the signatories formed a provisional government with Tom Clarke as its president because he’d been the first to sign.3 But Clarke was an old IRB man who preferred to work in the background. So they made Pádraic Pearse the president of the Irish Republic in addition to being the commander-in-chief. When the British shot Pearse, they were shooting a head of state. That’s why they killed him first. Then they shot Clarke and the other signatories. I don’t know what you could call that but assassination on a large scale.”

  “In our case,” said Henry, “the British called it execution. For treason.”

  “Well then, we intended to execute the lord-lieutenant of Ireland. For tyranny.”

  “Is that what you want us to write in the Bulletin?” Henry asked innocently. Anna Fitzsimons covered her mouth with her hand to stifle a laugh.

  Collins’ scowl dissolved into a grin. “You might tone it down a bit—make it more palatable for people to digest with their tea and biscuits.”

  “Can murder ever be made palatable?”

  “I’m not going to get into that old does-the-end-justify-the-means argument with you, Henry. We’re just paying the British back in their own coin. I’m not bloodthirsty, though, and I won’t allow my men to be. They’re only sent after selected military targets, such as spies in the pay of Dublin Castle. Spies don’t have the soldier mentality. When we shoot one down, there’s not another marching up behind him like a good little soldier to fill his shoes. And even if a replacement is found, he doesn’t have the dead man’s knowledge, so valuable information is lost forever. The squad’s mission is to make the British intelligence service deaf and blind. And it’s working, mark my words. Dublin Castle’s going to panic. When they hit back at us, which they will, they’ll just be recruiting more men for our cause.”

  Henry wanted to retain the high moral ground of indignation, but that would be hypocritical, would mean denying the secret fierce joy he felt at seeing his own people outmaneuvering the ancient enemy.

  THE Bulletin moved again, barely staying ahead of the authorities.

  DAN Breen had been wounded in the attack on Lord French and was in hospital under an alias. When Henry visited him, he found Breen reading a copy of the Irish Independent. “This rag’s calling young Savage a wanton murderer, Henry. I won’t have a dead comrade insulted that way. When I get out of here, we’re going to shut the Independent down.”

  Henry held up one hand. “Whoa there! Suppressing the news is what the British do—we don’t want to fall into that trap. Besides, during the Rising some of the Independent staff were Volunteers.”

  But recalling his own parting from Murphy’s newspaper, Henry thought to himself, I hope you do shut them down. Serve them right. They forget that their readers voted for the establishment of the Republic.

  The actions of Collins’ squad were having a paralyzing effect on the intelligence service. Pressured by an opponent as invisible and relentless as a swarm of gnats, the government became more repressive than ever. The authorities hit back blindly out of pride. This in turn generated more support for the Republicans, as Collins had predicted. New IRA recruiting offices were opened to meet the demand.

  “Mick has what country people call ‘an eye for the gap’—he knows how to exploit a weakness,” Henry remarked to Ned one morning as they left number 16 together. Henry was on his way to the Bulletin office; Ned was going to buy some nails and putty. At the bottom of the steps Ned turned to wave back at Síle and Precious, who, as always, were watching from the window.

  Henry did not allow himself to look back.

  “You’ve become a Collins man in spite of my warning,” Ned said as they walked down the street together.

  “I’m not anyone’s man but my own,” Henry assured him. “But I can’t help liking Mick. Everyone does. In some ways he’s like a cocky little boy thumbing his nose at the teacher and in other ways he’s the shrewdest man I’ve ever met. In spite of working thirty-six hours a day, he’s very methodical and precise about details.” Henry added with a chuckle, “You might say the Big Fellow’s a painstaking man. He takes pains and gives them to others.”

  “You could hardly call him an idealist like the Chief, though.”

  “Idealism got us as far as 1916, Ned, but it didn’t win the war. Mick Collins is a realist, and that’s what we need now. I used to agree with Griffith’s philosophy, but I’m beginning to think politics is just a more subtle form of violence—a way for those who have power to exercise it over those who don’t.”

  How do you explain, Henry wondered to himself, the process by which you come to a different way of thinking? It takes place below the surface; the mind follows an imperceptible pathway marked by invisible signposts.

  TO many Erskine Childers was an enigmatic figure. Born in London to an Ascendancy family, he had been mustered out of the Royal Air Force with the rank of major and had served for a time as a committee clerk in the House of Commons. A small, spare man with a permanent limp resulting from sciatica and a permanent thirst for adventure nothing could quell, Childers was a best-selling novelist, daring yachtsman, and motorcycle enthusiast…and had become a dedicated Irish nationalist.

  He continued to maintain a number of English connections, however—though his wife, Molly, was a confirmed Anglophobe. Childers frequently wrote for the London papers and had been commissioned by the Daily News to write eight articles explaining, for the average English reader, what was going on in Ireland. Childers introduced Henry to his British journalistic contacts, and soon he also was selling articles there. The pay was very welcome, but Henry was careful to keep the content of his writing as objective as possible.

  In the Bulletin he could say what he really felt.

  ON the twenty-third of December the Bulletin reported, “As a Christmas present to the people of Ireland, yesterday Lloyd George introduced a Government of Ireland Bill with one parliament for the six northeastern counties in Ulster and another for the remaining twenty-six. Under this bill Ireland would, de facto, be partitioned. The powers of both Irish parliaments would be severely restricted and the supremacy of the British parliament maintained.”

  Lloyd George then attempted to influence American opinion by comparing Ireland’s fight for freedom with the secession of the Southern states during the American Civil War. Countering the analogy, Erskine Childers wrote in the Bulletin: “We do not attempt secession. Nations cannot secede from a rule they have never accepted. We have never accepted yours and never will. Lincoln’s reputation is safe from your comparison. He fought to abolish slavery, you fight to maintain it. You own a third of the earth by conquest; you have great armies, a navy so powerful it can starve a whole continent. You wield the greatest aggregate of material force ever concentrated in the hands of one power; and, while canting about your championship of small nations, you use it to crush out liberty in ours. We are a small people with a population dwindling without cessation under your rule. Nevertheless, we accept your challenge and will fight you with the same determination, with the same resolve, as the American States, north and south, put into their fight for freedom against your empire.”4

  Ned sent thirty copies of this issue of the Bulletin to his sister in America to distribute.

  “I have put the Bulletin into President de Valera’s hands personally,” she wrote back.

  De Valera’s American tour had been a spectacular success. He had received pages of newspaper coverage in New York, Chicago, Boston, and San Francisco. Great crowds h
ad attended his speeches. His appearance at Madison Square Garden had broken all records.5 The only time he was booed was when he made an attempt to conciliate Woodrow Wilson by approving of the League of Nations. The League was not popular. In the wake of the Great War, Americans were increasingly isolationist.

  De Valera had begun as a warrior, but he was getting a crash course in politics. He learned fast. His subsequent rhetoric was couched in ambiguous phrases that did not offend anyone. With deft skill he maneuvered among the various contentious Irish-American factions, courting the support of each without offending the others. Instead of coming home when originally planned, he decided to stay on in America for some months more. The Dáil, which was kept informed of his activities with frequent telegrams, named Arthur Griffith to serve as its new acting president until his return.

  In his desperate clawing struggle to plant Ireland’s flag, de Valera called upon “the scattered children of the Gael” to help build the new nation with support both political and financial. To circumvent laws that could stop the Irish from selling Dáil bonds in the United States, de Valera hired a sharp young lawyer who had recently left Wilson’s administration. His name was Franklin Delano Roosevelt.6

  IN Ireland Michael Collins was consolidating his own support.

  EARLY in the new year the Bulletin relocated yet again, this time to a flat on the upper floor of a private house in Upper Mount Street. Here the little newsletter received a number of important visitors, Maud Gonne MacBride among them.

  Henry tried not to stare at the tall, stately woman in black who had inspired William Butler Yeats. Yeats had never made any secret of his unrequited passion for Maud Gonne. Everything in life was grist to his mill. He had even agonized in print over whether poetry of his had been responsible for sending the patriots to their deaths in 1916. The incredible arrogance of someone who things the entire world revolves around him! Henry had thought at the time.

  “Maud Gonne’s still the greatest beauty in Ireland,” Kathleen McKenna whispered to Henry under her breath. “What do you suppose it’s like, being worshipped by men?”

  Henry chuckled. “Don’t you know?” Kathleen was something of a beauty herself, with tiny hands and feet and a glossy mane the rich sable color of bog oak. Desmond FitzGerald was fond of teasing her by saying, “When Kathleen washes her hair there’s enough ink in the water for the next day’s Bulletin.”7

  MUNICIPAL and urban elections were to be held throughout Ireland. By this means the government sought to take the reins of control firmly back into its own hands. Two weeks ahead of time, martial law was declared in the counties of Waterford, Wexford, and Kilkenny. Sinn Féin posters were torn down and speeches by Republican candidates suppressed. A Sinn Féin campaign manager found with election materials was charged with possession of seditious documents and jailed for three months.

  Simultaneously Collins added three more men to his assassination squad, bringing it to an even dozen. All in their early twenties, they soon were being called “the Twelve Apostles”—although not in Collins’ hearing. He was strict with the squad, demanding that no one was to be shot except under orders. “Any man who has revenge in his heart is not fit to be a Republican,” he told them. But they were ruthless in seeking out approved targets. Hard men, forged in fire.

  The resolve of the police force faltered. Even plainclothes detectives suddenly found urgent reasons for requesting transfers to a different division. Dublin Castle was unable to learn the whereabouts of Sinn Féin candidates in time to prevent their making speeches.

  On the fifteenth of January, 1920, Ireland went to the polls. Two days later the Bulletin announced: “Republican candidates have won a momentous victory. Of the twelve cities and boroughs on this island, eleven have declared for the Republic. Only Belfast voted Unionist, and even there the majority was reduced. In spite of protests of Unionist solidarity, two of the six north-eastern counties which Lloyd George wants cut off from the rest of us voted solidly for Sinn Féin. Out of two hundred and six local councils elected throughout Ireland, one hundred and seventy-two have a Republican majority. Ireland has once again voted for independence. How long can Britain ignore the democratically expressed will of the people?”8

  The Bulletin was not alone in celebrating Sinn Féin’s victory. Nervously but with increasing optimism, newsagents were welcoming Republican newspapers back to the stands.

  MICHAEL Collins peered round the door of the flat in Upper Mount Street and caught Henry’s eye. His own eyes held a gleam of mischief. “D’ye want to come along and see me have my picture taken?”

  Kathleen McKenna stopped typing. Henry put down the page he was proofreading. “Are you serious?”

  “Too right I am. Dev’s over there in America talking to bankers and businessmen, raising money for the Dáil Loan and taking all the credit. I’m the finance minister. We’re going to make a little propaganda film ourselves, so get your hat, Henry. I have Joe Hyland waiting with his taxi to take us to Rathfarnham. Kathleen, you’ll hold the fort, won’t you?”

  “I always do,” she answered with a martyred sigh.

  The two men were no sooner settled in the cab than Collins asked Henry for a cigarette.

  “Don’t you ever buy your own?”

  Collins gave Henry a wide-eyed stare. “And where would I be findin’ the time to buy fags? I have a nation to run.” As if a thought had just occurred to him, he reached into his jacket pocket and took out a notebook similar to the one Henry always carried. He wrote, “Commission Frank FitzGerald to source arms in America for the defense of Catholics in the north of Ireland.”

  Peering over his shoulder, Henry asked, “Are you serious?”

  “I am of course. We can’t be abandoning those people up there.”

  Collins’ film was to be made at Saint Enda’s College, the school founded by Pádraic Pearse. The photographer was John MacDonagh, a brother of the late Thomas MacDonagh. He met their motorcab at the school gates and rode up the curving drive while standing on the running board. “Since the light’s good, we’re going to set up a table on the lawn,” MacDonagh explained to Henry through the open cab window. “We’re going to photograph Mick and Diarmuid signing National Loan bonds for the ladies right here where it all started.”

  The ladies he referred to were Pearse’s mother, Tom Clarke’s widow, and James Connolly’s daughter. On the broad front steps of the house they stood chatting with Diarmuid O’Hegarty, a member of the army executive committee. As soon as Margaret Pearse saw Henry emerge from the cab, she excused herself and came to greet him.

  She was a graying, matronly widow with fine features and an elegantly straight nose. Before her sons, Pádraic and Willie, were executed, she had been plump. Her clothes were loose on her now. Like Hannah Mooney, Mrs. Pearse always wore black; but unlike Hannah Mooney, she exuded a genuine warmth that put people at ease. From the first time he had met her in Ned Halloran’s company (God, was it only 1913! It seems a thousand years ago), Henry had envied the Pearse brothers their mother.

  Margaret Pearse had been elected to Dáil Éireann as the highest honor the new nation could bestow. Although she protested that she was only a simple woman with little understanding of politics, her credentials were impeccable. She had been the mother of two men; now she was mother to the Republic.

  “How nice that you could come, Mr. Mooney.” She took both his hands in hers and squeezed them. Her skin was dry and papery, with calluses on the palms; those hands had known a lifetime of work. “It’s been far too long since we saw you last,” she said. “And you brought the sunshine with you just when we need it.”

  “I wouldn’t miss the chance to see Mick Collins sit for his photograph. I can hardly believe he’s doing something so reckless.”

  Mrs. Pearse said gently, “ ‘Reckless’ is a term one might apply to any courageous act, Mr. Mooney. My Pat and Willie were reckless, but without risk there is no chance of success. Mr. Collins believes this film can sell a lot of bonds fo
r the Republic, and so it is worth doing.”

  Katty Clarke was the next to greet Henry. She had a long, rather somber face and a no-nonsense mouth, but her bright blue eyes were dancing as she said, “Imagine us all being film stars, Mr. Mooney!”

  “You have a lovely setting for it,” Henry observed, indicating the sweeping lawns leading up to the handsome house once known as the Hermitage. Pearse had almost bankrupted himself leasing the Hermitage and turning it into a school that would provide Irish boys as fine an education as any of their English contemporaries. “I’m surprised Madame Markievicz isn’t here, though. I understood she was staying with you these days.”

  Katty’s eyes clouded. “Haven’t you heard yet? Con was arrested again. Last night. She went with her back straight and her chin up, spitting defiance at them.”

  In a flash Henry had his notebook out and was conducting an interview.

  When the filming was concluded, Mrs. Pearse provided refreshments. No liquor was served. MacDonagh fiddled with his cameras while Collins and O’Hegarty talked earnestly in low voices. Balancing a cup of tea in one hand and a plate of sandwiches in the other, Henry ambled over to Mrs. Pearse. “I’ve been wanting to tell you how much I admire you for keeping Saint Enda’s going.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Mooney, but I deserve no praise. I had no choice; it was what Pat would have wanted. For a little while after my boys were shot I nearly lost my mind. General Maxwell would not even let me have their bodies back. Then people began urging us to reopen the school as a monument to Pat’s memory. I must confess, it was a relief to have something to do. Joseph MacDonagh was our headmaster until he was arrested in 1917, and when they were released from prison Frank Burke and Brian Joyce came back to us as teachers.” She lowered her voice. “The authorities don’t make it easy for us, you know.”