1921

by Morgan Llywelyn

  Henry could not resist adding, “After more than seven hundred years of subjugation the Irish Republican Army has made foreign occupation of Ireland untenable.”

  THE Bulletin staff held a little party. Emotions were mixed. “I’m so thankful for the truce,” Kathleen McKenna said to Henry. “My brother Tadhg’s in prison; now he’ll be released. But all the same…” Her eyes swept around the room.

  Henry understood. “It could mean the end of the Bulletin. When it’s no longer needed we’ll discontinue publishing.”

  She was biting back tears. “I can’t imagine what life would be like without the Bulletin.”

  Frank Gallagher interjected, “I can tell you what it will be like. We’ll have peace in Ireland. We won’t need to tell the stories no one else dare tell. You girls have been champion, you know. You’ve carried the burden while we were in and out of jail or risking our necks down the country.”

  Embarrassed, Kathleen lowered her eyes. “It was our privilege, Gally.”

  “Well, it was appreciated, and we want you each to have a little memento. Bring them over here, Henry, will you?”

  The “little memento” was a special edition of the Bulletin that Gallagher had inscribed on a stencil. The headline read MAKERS OF THE REPUBLIC. Beneath was a recognizable likeness of Kathleen McKenna, sketched by Ella Rutledge from a photograph. In cartoon style, it depicted her wielding a cudgel in one hand and a revolver in the other. The figure was labeled “The Dáil Girl.” A much smaller figure carrying an attaché case was identified as “The Mere President.”1

  EAMON De Valera issued a proclamation that read, “During the period of the truce each individual soldier and citizen must regard himself as a custodian of the nation’s honor. Your discipline must prove in the most convincing manner that this is the struggle of an organized nation.”2

  “WHAT does that mean, ‘the period of the truce’?” Louise Kearney asked Henry. “Isn’t this peace?”

  “It’s just a temporary respite,” he told her. “A quiet time in which to see if we can come to a settlement.”

  “And we’re supposed to trust the British to abide by their agreement?”

  “We have to trust them, Louise, and they have to trust us. If we can’t take at least that small step, how can we go any further?”

  She folded her arms atop the shelf of her bosom. “When they arrested you they came bursting into my house without my permission and pawed through my cupboards and went off with my valuables in their pockets. How am I supposed to trust people who’re after doing that?”

  The IRA felt the same way. Republicans stayed close to home with their weapons at the ready, expecting to be called up again any time.

  Civilians were overjoyed. The capital went en fête as it had with the announcement of the Armistice of the Great War. Curfew was rescinded. Nationalists flew the tricolor and sang “A Soldier’s Song” and shouted “Up the Republic!” without fear of arrest.

  Michael Collins made a trip home to Cork.

  Henry Mooney also took advantage of the general euphoria to give himself a brief holiday. Laden with small presents for everyone, he caught the early morning train for Clare.

  Frank Halloran met him at the station with the pony and trap. There was another horse alongside: a glossy dark gray, almost black—a spirited young animal who danced and tossed his head and flirted with the bit as if it were wrapped in thorns. He was ridden by a girl almost as leggy as her mount. She rode bareback, at one with the horse.

  Henry hardly recognized Precious. It occurred to him that Ned and Síle might have underestimated her age. They had guessed she was born in 1910, but her small stature could have been the result of malnutrition.

  “Uncle Henry!” she cried as she slid off and ran to embrace him.

  Seven months had wrought a remarkable change in Ursula Halloran. She was both taller and heavier. Her hair had become a healthy, lustrous nut-brown, hanging over one shoulder in a heavy plait; but the most noticeable change was in her face. A scattering of golden freckles dusted her skin like speckles on a blackbird’s egg. The underlying bone structure was being sculpted by the onset of puberty. Cheekbones were emerging. Eye sockets had acquired a definite arch. “Papa’s off with the lads,” she told Henry as she squeezed the breath out of him with a mighty hug, “but he’ll be at the farm in time for dinner. Aunt Norah and the girls are waiting; I insisted on welcoming you first.”

  Over her head, Frank caught Henry’s eye. “When this one insists…”

  Henry chuckled. “You don’t have to tell me.”

  Precious vaulted back onto the horse and rode beside the trap as they drove to the farm. “Don’t you have a saddle for that animal?” Henry called to her.

  “Don’t need one.”

  “I suspect your Aunt Norah’s scandalized to see you riding like that.”

  Precious laughed. “She is of course. But I just give her a hug and go on.”

  Frank laughed too, the rusty rumble of a man who did not laugh very often.

  “How are Lucy and Eileen taking to her?” Henry asked him in a low voice.

  “They seem to think she’s a force of nature and let her be.”

  “I’m amazed at how she’s grown.”

  The girl interjected, “Aunt Norah says cities are no good for Irish people, they stunt us.”

  “Are you still earwigging, Little Business?”

  She grinned. “I am of course. And I’m ever so much stronger. Here, we’ll show you.” Holding the reins in one hand, she twisted the fingers of her other hand into the horse’s mane and drummed his sides with her heels. Saoirse leaped into a gallop.

  Girl and horse thundered toward the nearest stone field wall. Henry thought his heart would stop. “Mind yourself!” he cried, but Precious paid no attention. When she leaned forward and made a clicking noise, Saoirse lifted into the air like Pegasus.

  Henry was badly shaken. “Don’t ever do that to me again, Little Business,” he called as she came trotting back through an open gate.

  Her laughter pealed. “Oh, Uncle Henry, Saoirse can go much higher than that!”

  “I’D think about marrying myself, Henry,” said Frank Halloran as they sat down to dinner, “if I could find a young woman to help with the farm. A strong woman with sturdy legs, beef to the heels like a Mullingar heifer.”

  “You don’t want a wife, you want a milk cow. I’m afraid my Ella wouldn’t suit you.” My Ella.

  Ned said, “Ella Rutledge would suit any man who admires grace and beauty. You have a treasure there, Henry. You’re not going to have an easy time of it, though.”

  Norah Daly glanced up from serving the mashed parsnips and carrots. “Why is that?”

  “Mrs. Rutledge is not of our faith.”

  Norah gasped. “You don’t tell me! Henry Mooney, you’ve proposed marriage to a Protestant? What were you thinking of at all?”

  “The rest of my life,” said Henry.

  Later he and Ned went for a walk together. Feeling every inch a country man, Henry broke off a stalk of grass and chewed it contemplatively as they strolled around the farm. Grain was ripening in the sun. The three young girls were singing together as they weeded the vegetable patch. Outside the barn, Frank was sharpening a scythe on the scythe stone, whiss-whiss, whiss-whiss, never missing a beat. Country rhythms, pastoral and eternal.

  “This is what one misses in Dublin,” remarked Henry. “Here everything is about living and growing.”

  “You’ve been in the city too long. You forget how much slaughtering we do.”

  Henry gave him a sideways glance. “Does that include Michael Brennan’s flying column?”

  “We’ve won more skirmishes than we’ve lost. That’s what war’s about.”

  “Seen much skirmishing yourself, have you?”

  Ned spun around to face him. “You know I have not,” he said in an angry voice, biting down on the words. “You know exactly what my orders are.”

  “I told you before that�
�”

  “The Volunteers are one big family,” Ned interrupted. “I think you forget that, Henry. Dick Mulcahy’s secretary was with me in the GPO, and when I asked him why I was given the only noncombat assignment in Clare, he told me. You arranged it. I’m no fool; it was easy enough to figure out why. You wanted me out of Dublin and away from Síle’s grave.”

  “Ah, Ned, that wasn’t the—”

  “Away from Síle’s grave,” Ned said again. He turned away and strode off. His rigid shoulders were a harsh punctuation mark in the gentle poetry of landscape.

  Henry watched for a few moments, then hurried to catch up. Ned did not acknowledge his presence.

  Just walk. Give him time to calm down. At last Henry asked brightly, “How are people here reacting to the truce?”

  He had to repeat the question before Ned replied in a sullen, uninflected voice. “I took the news to Brigadier Brennan in Kilmaley and then went with him and the flying column to Ennis. In front of the Clare Hotel we were surrounded by a crowd of people cheering and hugging each other—even a British sergeant with the Victoria Cross on his tunic. When we went on to Limerick the next day, the same scene was repeated. Our men were carrying rifles, and so were the Auxiliaries and Tans. The two sides circled around each other like dogs in the road. There were a lot of itching trigger fingers, but no one fired a shot.”3

  Henry looked out across the rolling hills of Clare. The real Ireland, uninterested in the petty convulsions of men. “Ned, if we do reach a settlement with Britain…do you think we’ll all be able to live together again?”

  “I don’t know, Henry. That would be asking a lot of human nature.” He hesitated, then added, “Friends come and friends go, but an enemy is forever.”

  On the train back to Dublin Henry was deeply troubled. Ned’s attitude perplexed him. He tried to tell himself it was just resentment at his interfering. Ned would get over it—would even be grateful to him, someday. Yet at the back of his mind, a warning bell chimed a discordant note.

  The next day, although Henry hated visiting cemeteries, he went to Glasnevin and stood for a long time beside Síle’s grave with his head down and his hands folded.

  I’m doing my best for him, Síle. For him and Precious.

  Afterward he walked aimlessly, going for a little journey around the inside of his head. Eventually he found himself beside the Royal Canal. The dark water mirrored a solitary swan drifting as aimlessly as himself.

  Swans should be in pairs. They mate for life, don’t they? Henry cupped his mouth with his hands and called, “Why don’t you go and find her, wherever she is?”

  Slowly the regal head turned on the imperial neck. The bird looked at him across the water. He could swear their eyes met. Man and animal were briefly locked in an intense moment that transcended species. Then with a great flapping of wings the swan ran along the surface of the canal and leaped for the sky.

  Whether drifting on the water or soaring in the sky it was at home, a creature in its element. Yet in the moment of takeoff the swan was vulnerably awkward.

  So are we poor lonely humans, Henry mused, caught between earth and heaven.

  THE cease-fire was in place but the hard work still lay ahead. When they met in the Oval Bar, Matt Nugent told Henry, “The British press is using this as a propaganda opportunity. They claim their government made an exceptionally generous offer it didn’t have to make, and if we Irish are so ungrateful as to refuse the terms, there is every moral justification for crushing us by force. They say telegrams of congratulation are pouring in to Lloyd George.”

  “I’ll just bet they are,” said Henry.

  Michael Collins was also back in Dublin. He was furious when the British announced that the remaining imprisoned Dáil Deputies would all be released save one. The exception was a close friend of Collins, Seán MacEoin. In a highly charged meeting with other members of the cabinet, Collins said he was willing to call a resumption of the war if all the TDs were not freed at once.

  Equally furious that Collins would jeopardize the truce for the sake of one man, de Valera had no choice but to agree. The demand was passed on to Downing Street. MacEoin was released with the others.

  When Eamon de Valera departed for London to discuss the next phase of the peace negotiations he took with him Erskine Childers, who was now serving in the Dáil as TD for Wicklow, as well as Arthur Griffith and Count Plunkett. Michael Collins was not invited.

  Once they arrived in London, de Valera left his party at the hotel and went alone to 10 Downing Street. The prime minister welcomed him with all the pomp and circumstance of empire: red carpets unrolled, flunkeys in livery opening doors, much bowing and scraping, photographs for the newspapers. Attired in a beautifully cut morning coat, Lloyd George radiated self-assurance: a leonine mane of white hair; a strong-featured face; dark eyebrows flared like butterflies’ wings above wide-set, hypnotically brilliant eyes. The prime minister employed his features as an actor might, appearing ingenuous or shrewd, a sympathetic friend or a dangerous enemy as the situation required. A flair for drama was his stock in trade.

  Beside him de Valera appeared gawky and foreign-looking. A man not in his element.

  Once the ceremony was over and the two were seated in a private chamber, Lloyd George began the conversation by asking de Valera if there was a word in Irish for “republic.” De Valera told him of two, the more literal being poblacht. But there was also saorstat, or “free state.” Lloyd George smiled and said “Free State” was a fine name and need not be changed. He repeated it frequently during their meeting. From this de Valera inferred an acceptance of the Republic, as he told the others when he returned to the hotel. He had three more meetings with Lloyd George, and wrote to Michael Collins, “The meetings have been between us two alone as principals…You will be glad to know that I am not dissatisfied with the general situation.”4

  De Valera had yet to learn just how slippery the Welsh Wizard could be.

  On the nineteenth of July an interview with Sir James Craig was published in which the northern leader made it obvious that Lloyd George had assured him the six Ulster counties would be held apart from the “Free State.”

  A heated exchange followed between de Valera and Lloyd George. The prime minister then handed de Valera a proposal by which Ireland would be granted partial dominion status within the British Commonwealth—described as “the great association of free nations over which His Majesty reigns.” The proposal ignored the principle of self-determination for Ireland as a whole according to majority vote, and offered a far more restricted autonomy than that enjoyed by other dominion members such as Canada. It also copper-fastened Northern Ireland as a separate polity. The Free State was further expected to assume responsibility for a share of Britain’s debts.

  De Valera felt certain that his people would not accept less than the Republic. Nor would he. He told Lloyd George he would not even take the document home with him for consideration, and he and his party returned to Dublin.

  The British sent the document after them.

  ON the twenty-ninth of July an Austrian who had been wounded and gassed during the Great War became the new president of the National Socialist German Workers Party. Adolf Hitler, who was scathing in his condemnation of democracy, had begun his climb to power.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  August 26, 1921

  EAMON DE VALERA CONFIRMED BY DÁIL ÉIREANN AS

  PRESIDENT OF THE IRISH REPUBLIC

  THE damned Delage was parked in front of Herbert Place again. Polished and gleaming. Cushioned leather upholstery and patented shock absorbers. Henry stared at it with incredulity.

  How dare he pay a call on my fiancée!

  The voice of common sense cut in. Major Congreve was an old friend of the family. There was no reason why he should not call.

  Ella still hasn’t told anyone about our engagement. Including that damned major, I’m sure. Why not? I want to shout it from the rooftops.

  Too many years
of observing politics and politicians had made Henry cynical. He had learned to expect hidden motives. What if she’s keeping her options open for a better offer? Maybe she’s decided she doesn’t want to live on a journalist’s income and doesn’t know how to tell me.

  He gave himself a mental shaking. Ella’s not like that.

  But that other voice in his head, like the droning of a poisonous insect, went on. How do I know what she’s like? I’ve never pretended to understand women. The closest I came was Síle…

  He put his foot of the bottom step and looked up at the door. The polished brass knocker. The gleaming nameplate.

  Turned. Looked back at the motorcar.

  Patented shock absorbers.

  Damn.

  As he raised his hand to the knocker, the door opened and Congreve himself emerged, chatting back over his shoulder. He nearly knocked Henry down before he saw him. “I beg your pardon, old man.”

  “I’m not your old man,” Henry said. “And I’m not old,” he added. He could not help it.

  Congreve paused; took a good look at him. Read his eyes. “Is something amiss?” he asked politely. Then he turned and called into the house, “Ella, your friend the newsman is here, looking like thunder.”

  “Your friend the newsman”—as if I deliver the papers!

  Henry was growing angrier by the moment. Brushing past Congreve, he stalked into the house. Ella gave him a startled look but lingered at the door long enough to tell the major goodbye, then followed Henry into the drawing room. “What on earth is wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong.”

  “Don’t bite my head off, Henry. Wallace is right, you do look like thunder.”