1921

by Morgan Llywelyn

  “Ned would do the same for me,” Henry assured her.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  DESPITE the approach of Christmas, Kingsbridge Train Station was almost empty. In the current tense situation people were not traveling unless they must. After Henry saw Ned and Precious onto their train, he slouched through the echoing station, feeling achingly alone.

  Good things do come out of bad, he tried to comfort himself. Ned could never go home while Síle lived. Everyone in that part of Clare would have remembered her as the girl who ran away with the cattle dealer. She’d be marked for life, even if they never found out she’d become a whore in Dublin afterward. Not that that’s so unusual. This city is full of whores. And priests. And soldiers. To tell Dublin’s story you would have to tell about all of them. But no woman could survive what the big mouths and the little minds would have done to Síle if she went back to the country.

  Now she was a heroine, buried in the designated Republican plot in Glasnevin. Except for himself and Ned, no one knew all of her story.

  Perhaps every person is a mystery. No matter how straightforward the exterior, inside is all myths and mazes.

  His thoughts expanded to a spiral, inevitably led to Ella Rutledge. Someone else who has a lot more to her than appears on the surface. Fascinating to explore. If she’d let me.

  If she’d let me…A kaleidoscope of erotic images shimmered behind Henry’s eyes: Ella in a froth of silk lingerie…Ella unpinning a mass of fragrant hair…Ella—

  His neck burned red. He glanced around as if afraid passersby could read his mind. Stop that, he told himself sternly. Stop that. But he walked on dreaming.

  Henry intended to stay in the city for the holidays. He would miss Ned, and most particularly Precious, but they needed time to settle into their new surroundings. Besides, he had promised to attend not one but two parties on Christmas Eve: one given by the irrepressible Michael Collins and the other in Herbert Place.

  A murmur of hope ran through the capital. As a result of intensive pressure at home and abroad, Lloyd George was said to be considering the possibility of a truce. In the House of Commons he stated on the tenth of December that he believed the majority in Ireland were anxious for peace.

  Almost immediately, however, he announced that any meetings to discuss a truce would have certain preconditions. It must be understood that the six counties of northeastern Ulster would be accorded separate treatment, and also that under no circumstances would the government agree to any proposal for the secession of any part of Ireland from the United Kingdom.1

  Dublin Castle added its own precondition. No truce talks could take place without a surrender of IRA weapons.

  “No army in history ever surrendered its arms before a truce was established,” Henry pointed out in the Bulletin.

  The murmur of hope dwindled, died.

  ON the tenth of December the Irish Independent reported, “Today Woodrow Wilson, former president of the United States, was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize. Paralyzed since his stroke last year, Wilson was not able to accept in person. President Warren G. Harding sent an emissary in his name.”

  ON the tenth of December Lord-Lieutenant French placed counties Cork, Kerry, Limerick, and Tipperary under martial law. The following night Auxiliaries and Tans rampaged through the streets of Cork City, setting fires. Soon a baleful orange glow stained the sky. Shops were looted; Patrick Street was gutted. City Hall was demolished, as was the Free Library. While members of the fire brigade tried to fight the rapidly spreading conflagration, two were shot by the military. Dawn revealed the main thoroughfare clogged with wreckage and smoldering debris.

  Within hours the great country houses of Protestants in County Cork began to go up in flames.

  “Do you want to go down there?” Frank Gallagher asked Henry.

  “I’ve seen it before, remember? Dublin, 1916. I don’t have to visit Cork to describe what they’ve done to it. I’m sick to my back teeth of seeing beauty destroyed.”

  “That’s all right—we have someone in Cork who can bring us an eyewitness account. Young fellow named Ellis who used your name as a recommendation, in fact. He’s working on the Cork Examiner.”

  Three days later the military authorities issued a proclamation to the effect that any person convicted of specified offenses would be liable for execution. These offenses did not include arson, looting, or murdering Irish civilians. They did include the “unofficial” possession of firearms or explosives, the wearing of a Republican uniform or “clothing likely to deceive,” and harboring, aiding, or abetting rebels.

  One of the first to be arrested was a reporter named Ellis, who was taken off a train from Cork when he was found to be carrying documents meant for the Irish Bulletin.

  ON December twenty-third the Government of Ireland Act became law. It was to be officially implemented in May.

  ALSO on December twenty-third, Eamon de Valera at last returned to Ireland. For months he had been developing connections in the United States that would be useful to the infant Republic. Clan na Gael, the Ancient Order of Hibernians, the Friendly Sons of Saint Patrick, and other prominent Irish-American organizations had hosted him as he criss-crossed the country. He had met with state governors, addressed state legislatures, been given the freedom of cities, and received honorary degrees. Every major newspaper carried photographs. If Arthur Griffith represented the face of Sinn Féin to Dublin Castle, then Eamon de Valera had become the face of Ireland in America.

  He had also learned a great deal about the fierce in-fighting between the various Irish-American factions, each with its own vision for “the Ould Sod.”

  Henry was on hand at the docks to cover de Valera’s arrival in the predawn hours. To avoid calling unnecessary attention, the welcoming party was small, just a few members of the Dáil and an IRA bodyguard. They waited with ill-concealed impatience. Henry’s willpower finally deserted him. He borrowed a cigarette from one of the TDs and went stamping up and down the dock, trying to keep his feet warm.

  The relatively short voyage from Liverpool to Dublin across the Irish Sea was often rougher than the Atlantic crossing. It proved so again. De Valera disembarked suffering from seasickness. I’ll describe him as looking stern and statesmanlike, Henry decided.

  “How’s it going?” de Valera asked one of the men who was hefting his luggage.

  “Great! The Big Fellow is leading us and everything is going marvelous.”

  Henry saw de Valera’s lips tighten. Striking the guard rail with his hand, he exclaimed, “Big Fellow! We’ll see who’s the Big Fellow…”2

  I don’t think I’ll print that.

  They accompanied de Valera to a safe house arranged by Michael Collins: the home of a prominent Dublin gynecologist who was popular among the wives of British officers. As Henry was leaving the house, he met Cathal Brugha arriving. “Dev’s home and dry,” Henry remarked to him on the steps.

  Brugha gave a brusque nod. “Now we’ll get things straightened out, and not before time. With the Chief back as president of the Dáil, Collins won’t have it all his own way anymore.”

  So the rumors I’ve been hearing are true, Henry thought. There is antipathy between Brugha and Collins.

  The men who had brought Ireland this far along the road to freedom were all strong-minded individualists; nothing less could have succeeded. Among such men there would inevitably be deep philosophical differences. De Valera had succeeded in holding them together before he went to America. Would he be able to do so now? Henry wondered. Or would the British, scenting cracks in the structure, find ways to drive wedges between them?

  Never underestimate Machiavelli. I’d wager Lloyd George has read him too.

  ON Christmas Eve pedestrians shopping in Grafton Street were held up by Auxiliaries and searched at gunpoint. Dashing angry tears from her eyes, Kathleen McKenna stormed into the nearest teashop and borrowed a pencil from the proprietor so she could write down every detail to report in the Bulletin.

>   Meanwhile, Henry was running his own last-minute holiday errands. He encountered one of Collins’ men on a bicycle, frantically pedaling from neighborhood to neighborhood as he delivered a myriad of presents to the Big Fellow’s friends and acquaintances. He pulled up at the curb, panting. “Been looking for you, Mooney. Mick wants you to know the party tonight will be at the Gresham Hotel.”

  “Are you serious? That’s one of the most public places in Dublin.”

  The other man shrugged. “Some of the boys won’t go; they claim it’s suicide. But the Big Fellow’s assured us we’ll have a private room. Not to worry.”

  Not to worry. My God, how long does he expect his remarkable luck to hold?

  Knowing the Collins party would run very late, Henry decided to go to the Mansell party first—while he was still sober. He bathed and dressed in his best suit, ruefully noting that the cuffs of his suitcoat were beginning to show signs of wear. Financially he was stretched thin. Added to the Limerick tithe was the expense of the horse trainer for Saoirse. But that was one expense he could not begrudge. Besides, it was over now.

  His surprise Christmas present to Precious had already been delivered.

  Henry was smiling to himself as he knocked on the door in Herbert Place.

  The house was lavishly decorated with massive swags of greenery, crimson velvet bows, candles on every available surface. Tides of people ebbed and flowed through the reception rooms. Laughter and conversation. Body heat rising through perfumed air. Silk and velvet frocks; army officers in dress uniform. Linen-draped tables with bowls of creamy eggnog and sparkling punch, and a selection of whiskies for the men. Chamber music emanating from a quartet discreetly concealed behind a jungle of potted palms. Ella Rutledge looking superb in pale blue chiffon with a handkerchief hem.

  She greeted Henry with exactly the same degree of warmth she bestowed on every guest—among whom, he noticed to his chagrin, was Major Congreve.

  A huge Christmas tree in the style beloved of the late Queen Victoria stood in the exact center of the room. Henry had given a great deal of thought to Ella’s present. He was anxious to see her expression when she opened it.

  When he handed her the carefully wrapped package, she said, “How lovely, Henry! Thank you so much.”

  She put it, unopened, with the array of others beneath the tree.

  After the first toast to the season, Major Congreve took center stage as if it were his right. He had an inexhaustible repertoire of war stories featuring himself as hero and had soon gathered a coterie of admiring women.

  The man’s all gab and guts, thought Henry sourly. How much of that is he making up? I could tell some war stories if I wanted to. I know things that damned Congreve doesn’t dream of.

  A blur of faces. Making small talk with strangers. Aware of political lines, the need to be careful. Trying to catch a glimpse of Ella. Always with someone else. Being charming. Very much in demand. The rest of the room invisible, its occupants boring, an interference.

  He stole a surreptitious glance at his watch. “I have another party to go to,” Henry apologized to Ava. “I’m really sorry, but—”

  As if she had picked up his message by invisible telegraph, Ella was beside him. “Surely you’re not leaving so soon.”

  Her obvious regret was the best thing that had happened so far. “I’m afraid I must. I promised.”

  “Well, then, wait just a moment.” She ran across the room and swooped down beside the tree, then came back holding a gift-wrapped box. “Take this with you and open it when you open your other presents.” So swiftly he almost thought he imagined it, she rose on tiptoe and kissed his lips. “Caught you under the mistletoe,” she added, pointing to a sprig hanging above him.

  Then she vanished into the crowd.

  The next thing Henry knew he was standing outside the house, holding her present. Tasting her kiss. Feeling a charge of electricity run through him from his mouth to his groin to his knees.

  Under the nearest street lamp he opened the box. It contained a trilby hat.

  THE Gresham was overflowing. Another sort of Christmas crowd here: louder, impersonal. Henry took off his precious new trilby and shouldered his way through the thronged lobby until he found the night manager. “The Big Fellow,” he whispered under his breath, extending a coin. “Private room.”

  “I’m afraid all the private rooms were booked already, Mr. Mooney. You’ll find your party inside.” The man nodded to indicate the public dining room.

  Henry felt a prickle of alarm. “Could you not put him someplace less obvious? Or better still, talk him out of this altogether?”

  “Two chances of that: slim and none. You didn’t really expect me to argue with him, did you?”

  “I s’pose not. Well, at least keep your eyes peeled and let us know if…” Henry offered another coin.

  “Keep your money. I won’t let anything happen to the Big Fellow if I can help it.”

  The party was in full swing by the time Henry arrived. Collins’ bravado was not shared by everyone. Fewer than a dozen men were present. Five were members of the squad; the rest were trusted agents. Henry remarked as he sat down, “You lot would make a great Christmas present for the Castle.” The words were hardly out of his mouth when he saw the night manager in the doorway, signaling frantically. A moment later six uniformed Auxiliaries stalked into the dining room.

  People froze with their forks in midair. Food and conversation dried on their lips.

  The Auxiliaries split up and began working their way around the large room, searching guests at random. Michael Collins said under his breath, “False names, everybody. And let me do the talking.” When two men came to his table, he greeted them cheerfully. “What are you chaps looking for, an invitation? Pull up a couple of chairs if you like—we don’t stand on ceremony around here.” Collins seemed as relaxed as if they were old friends.

  Henry could feel the sweat rolling down his back.

  When Collins was searched, a bottle of whiskey was discovered in his hip pocket. “It’s a gift for my landlady—how else is a fellow supposed to get clean sheets?” The Auxiliaries laughed and set the bottle down on the table.

  For once Henry did not have his notebook on him. A notebook was found in Collins’ possession, however, and one of the Auxiliaries began flipping through the pages. “I can’t read your writing,” he said suspiciously. “What’s this? Rifles?”

  Collins stood up and peered over his shoulder. “Refills,” he corrected. “Say, can a fellow go to the toilet?”

  The other man took a blurred photograph from his pocket. Studied it, looked searchingly at Collins. “We’ll go with you. There’s a few more questions to be asked.” Both then escorted Collins to the toilets while his party remained at the table, trying not to look as guilty as they felt.

  Long minutes passed.

  “I better go see what’s happened,” Liam Tobin said. He sauntered out of the room with his usual loose-jointed, lazy gait. An onlooker would have thought him unconcerned unless they noticed the muscle twitching in his jaw.

  Tobin was barely out of sight when the remaining Auxiliaries approached the table.

  Henry braced himself in his chair and smiled up at them. “All through?” he asked brightly. “Did you find any of those Republican bastards? No? Sorry about that—it’s tough to have to waste your Christmas Eve chasing the likes of them. Say, would you like to have a drink before you go? To make up for your trouble?” He held up Collins’ bottle. The men grinned. Tension diminished a notch. Henry looked toward the doorway, where the waiters were hovering nervously, and signaled for a second bottle.

  Chairs were pulled out, glasses filled. Henry turned the full force of his most amiable persona on the Auxiliaries, bombarding them with pleasantries. Collins, Tobin, and the two guards returned to find him leading the party in drinking a toast to the king.

  “For a while there, I thought I was going to have to grab one of their guns and make a break for it,” Collins
managed to whisper to Henry. “But they couldn’t identify me.”

  “You’re too cocksure by half,” Henry retorted. “You’ve taken ten years off my life tonight.”

  When the public dining room was finally closed for the night, the Auxiliaries staggered out with their arms around the shoulders of Collins’ men, singing “Good King Wenceslas.”

  TWO days after Christmas Henry received an ecstatic letter from Precious.

  “Dearest Uncle Henry,

  “How can I thank you! He is here, Saoirse is here and he is mine! The man who brought him from Limerick rode him all the way and led another horse to ride back. He said I should get on Saoirse immediately, while he was tired. That way he was calm for our first ride together. Horses remember things like that.

  “His coat is very shaggy but Uncle Frank says that is just winter hair and he will shed it out. Papa taught me an Irish saying. Is minic a rinne bromach gioblach capall cumasach. Which means, A raggy colt often made a powerful horse.

  “Saoirse is still gentle with me but he is not dull. He is full of spirit. Sitting on him is like riding the wind but I am not afraid. I have fallen off twice already but it did not hurt. Lucy and Eileen have a fat pony called Tad but they do not ride him much anymore. I shall ride Saoirse every day no matter what the weather. I wish Mama was here to see him. But I think she is, don’t you?”

  She signed the letter “Little Business.”

  I think she is, don’t you?

  Chapter Thirty

  FROM her bedroom window on the second story Ella Rutledge looked down at the street. Assessing the weather. Deciding what to wear. New Year’s Day, 1921, had begun with a rare, light fall of snow, but already it was melting. The cobbles would be slippery with brown slush. Buttoned boots, then, even if they were out of fashion. And a fur.

  The family occasionally spent Christmas in Belfast, where snow was more common and seemed to last longer. Strange, what a difference a few miles could make.