At last Desmond FitzGerald peered through the glass door panel and Henry beckoned him in. He was ashen with fatigue.
“What happened?” Henry asked eagerly.
“Is that tea hot? Never mind, just give me some.” FitzGerald took Henry’s cup and drained it in one long gulp. He shuddered. “Christ, man, what do you have in there?”
“Just sugar. The milk in that jug’s sour.”
“Do you always put a little tea in your sugar?”
“Never mind about that, tell me who’s going to London.” Henry opened his notebook.
FitzGerald dropped wearily into a chair and began counting off on his fingers. “The delegates are Arthur Griffith, George Gavan Duffy, Robert Barton, Eamonn Duggan, and Michael Collins. Erskine Childers will be chief secretary to the delegation, and—”
“Michael Collins! Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. When I left, Mick was still arguing with the Chief about it. Neither he nor Arthur Griffith want to go, and Cathal Brugha and Austin Stack have refused outright. Dev let them off, but he’s determined about the other two.”
“Mick wanted to go badly enough last time.”
“I know, but now he’s dead against it. The British think of him as an elusive demon they can’t defeat, which gives him a certain mysterious glamour—and great value as a gun held to their heads. He says if they see him in the flesh and realize he’s an ordinary man they won’t be afraid of him anymore.”
“Mmm,” said Henry, “he has a point there. But the same thing was just as true last time. There must be another reason why he doesn’t want to go.”
“If there is, he didn’t tell us. Mick can argue all he likes, but in the finish-up he’ll obey orders.”
“So he’ll be at Dev’s side.”
Desmond FitzGerald slumped deeper in his chair. “That’s just it. He won’t be at Dev’s side. Arthur Griffith’s heading the delegation with our own Kathleen McKenna as his private secretary. The Chief’s not going at all.”
THE next day Henry went looking for Michael Collins. For once Collins was impossible even for his friends to find. Henry left messages for him in all the familiar haunts, then went back to number 16 to work on an article he was preparing about the upcoming peace talks. As so often, he lost himself in the work. Louise had to knock twice on his door before he heard her.
She hissed in a stage whisper, “He’s here.”
“Who’s here?”
“The Big Fellow. Down in the parlor.”
“Well, show him up, woman. I’m sure he doesn’t want to talk in a room as public as your parlor.”
Louise Kearney was thirty years older than Michael Collins, but there was no mistaking the nature of her excitement. By the time she reappeared with Collins she had smoothed her hair, licked her lips, and pinched her cheeks to make them even redder. Her eyes were very bright and she was breathing hard.
A certain mysterious glamour, Henry thought, amused.
Collins flung himself down on Henry’s bed as if it belonged to him. “You were looking for me?”
“I’m writing about the delegation that’s going to London and I would like to include a statement from you.”
“I’m being sent against my will. That’s not a statement for publication, but it’s God’s truth. I’m a warrior, not a politician.”
“Mick, you’ve worked in London and, as you reminded me yourself, you know the scene over there. Dev may genuinely believe you’re the best person for the job. Remember the adage ‘It’s the old dog for the hard road.’ ”
Collins rolled onto his side and propped himself up on one elbow. “Hell with that, Henry. Let me remind you of another saying. How about ‘lamb to the slaughter’? This is Dev’s way of getting rid of me. The man’s as subtle as a Jesuit, trying to make being sacrificed look like an honor.”
“What do you mean, ‘sacrificed’?”
“Dev can’t refuse what appears to the world as an honest offer of negotiation, so he’s sending us to make a final attempt. If we succeed you can be sure he’ll take the credit. If we fail, however, we’ll get the blame. And Arthur Griffith already told Dev straight out that we won’t get the Republic. He’s convinced Lloyd George will never accept it.”
“You can’t put the entire onus on Lloyd George,” Henry replied. “He has Tories and Whigs to deal with—not to mention James Craig and his Unionists.”
“I understand that. Damned politics.” Collins sounded disgusted. “Christ, I just made another plea to the Unionists myself. I published an article in every northern newspaper that would carry it, urging them to join us and help govern their own country instead of leaving it up to Westminster. They’re ignoring me.” Dropping his voice, he said, “I have another reason for not wanting to be away from Ireland right now. Not important in the grand scheme of things, but…I’ve been seeing one particular young lady who means a lot to me.”
Henry chuckled. “A certain Miss Kiernan from Longford?”
Collins nodded. “Unfortunately my pal Harry Boland likes her too. Now he’s off to America on IRB business, and I think he’s going to ask her to join him there and marry him.”
“I had no idea things had gone that far.”
“They shouldn’t have,” Collins replied. “I should have forced the issue sooner; I plan to marry her myself.”
“Does Harry know?”
“These days we talk about everything but Kitty. It’s—”
“It’s a very awkward situation,” interjected Henry. “Surely you’ll have some time off during the conference, though.”
“In a manner of speaking,” the other replied. “Arthur and I are supposed to come back from time to time to report to Dev personally.”
“Well, you can plead your cause with Miss Kiernan then. Just don’t let your personal life distract you from the larger picture.”
“No bleedin’ chance of that,” said the Big Fellow.
Chapter Thirty-three
“I INTEND to go to London to cover the Anglo-Irish Conference,” Henry told Ella Rutledge.
“How wonderful!”
“There’s a lot of us going. Every major newspaper is sending reporters, and the freelancers are fighting for accommodations. London hotels are said to be ruinously expensive, so I was hoping…”
“Hoping what?”
“There might be someone in the city whom I could stay with.” He drew a deep breath. I should have forced the issue sooner. “Future family.”
He halfway expected her to balk, like a horse refusing to jump a fence. Then she gave the sort of mysterious little woman-smile he had never understood. “Of course. I shall write to them tonight and tell them of our engagement, and ask them to look after you while you’re in London.”
My God. As simple as that. Emboldened, he took one step further. “What about our wedding date? In case anyone asks.”
“Oh, whenever you think. Shall we say…this time next year? Perhaps the first Sunday in October? That will hardly give me enough time to prepare, but I can get busy right away.”
Henry would have given anything he possessed to be able to sit down that night with Ned Halloran and talk about the strange and incomprehensible ways of women.
ON the seventh of October the delegates were conferred with credentials by the Dáil. On the eighth Ella gave Henry a letter of introduction to the London cousins. “Good luck,” she said.
“I’m not sure luck matters so much. Audacity seems to work better,” he told her. But he took care to supply himself with an assortment of presents: marzipan and handkerchiefs embroidered with Limerick lace for the women, and Irish whiskey for the men.
THAT evening Michael Collins went to confession. Afterward he asked the priest, “Will you say a prayer for Ireland, Father?”
Then he went to ask Ned Broy to accompany him to London as his personal secretary.
HENRY Mooney also paid a last-minute call to a priest. He found Father O’Flanagan in the Sinn Féin office in Harcourt Stre
et. Michael O’Flanagan, whose dynamic organizing skills had been partly responsible for Sinn Féin’s electoral victories, was sitting behind a desk trying to shore up a toppling tower of file folders. He glanced up hopefully as Henry entered the room. “I don’t suppose you know where—”
The journalist held up his hands. “I do not know, there’s no point in asking me. Talk to the office girls.”
“You seconded the best of them to the Bulletin. That’s why there’s a problem now. But not to worry, I’ll get it sorted. In the meantime, did you want something?”
Henry shifted from one foot to the other. He should have had this conversation sooner, but there was so much going on, and he had not really been sure of Ella…“I need some information about getting married.”
“That’s grand! Congratulations. Who’s the lucky girl?”
“Her name is Ella Rutledge. Mrs. Rutledge—she’s a widow. And a Protestant, Father. Anglican. Church of Ireland.” He spun it all out as if it would somehow make a difference.
“I see.” The priest’s expression did not change by a whisker, yet Henry had the distinct impression that blinds had been drawn down. “Have you actually proposed?”
“I have, and she’s accepted. We plan to marry early next October.”
“You should have come to me sooner, Henry. Surely you’re aware we do not approve of anyone marrying outside the Church.”
“It happens, though; I know of several instances myself.”
“It happens,” the priest agreed gravely.
“What I need to know, Father, is what restrictions the Church will place on the marriage.”
“First you will have to apply for a special dispensation, and both you and Mrs. Rutledge will need to talk with your parish priest.”
“I don’t really have a parish priest,” Henry said, refusing to sound apologetic. “I’m not much of a churchgoer.”
“I see.” A long pause. Then, “Very well. I’ll give you the benefit of my counsel.”
“And support?” Henry urged.
The priest gave him a long look. “And friendship,” he said.
“Then as a friend, tell me what we need to know.”
“Under the canon law governing mixed marriages, there can be no Mass celebrated.”
That’s not so bad. I won’t mind and I’m sure Ella won’t.
“Secondly, since 1908 both partners are required to give a promise in writing that any children will be raised in the Catholic Church. You must make that very clear to the lady in question, and the promise must be filed with the Church before a priest will consent to marry you. Should you undertake to be married by anyone other than a Catholic priest, your marriage will not be considered valid in Ireland and your children will not be legitimate.”
“I can’t tell Ella that!”
“I’m sorry, Henry. There are no exceptions.”
IT was one of those radiant autumn mornings that occasionally enrich Dublin by standing guard in russet and gold against the approaching winter. The air was liquid spice. Even the aroma from the Liffey was tolerable.
Ella Rutledge was among the throng of well-wishers who came to the docks to see the delegation depart. She was wearing a fawn Norfolk jacket and walking skirt and a lemon-colored silk blouse, and just before Henry boarded the boat she kissed him in front of everyone.
He had not yet told her of his conversation with Father O’Flanagan. In the last-minute rush of events there was no convenient time.
The jubilant crowd on the Dublin docks radiated optimism like heat from a stove. People were convinced the treaty delegation was going to achieve Irish independence. In the gilding sunlight, with Ella Rutledge smiling up at him as he leaned his elbows on the top rail of the boat, Henry believed it himself. There’s no advantage for Britain in holding on to Ireland against her will. Far better for the Crown to acknowledge Ireland’s nationhood and have her as a friend and ally. Which we will be if they treat us fairly. Surely our lads can convince them.
When the boat docked at Holyhead, its passengers traveled on to London by train, arriving at Euston Station. They were welcomed by an immense crowd that seemed to include every Irish man and woman in London and not a few sympathetic English people. Cheers and applause; tricolors waving exuberantly. Adults pointing out well-known personalities to their children: “Remember him, now. Remember that you saw Mr. Arthur Griffith. And there’s Mr. Childers, who wrote that famous book. Wave to him!”
After an exhaustive round of handshaking and back pounding, the delegates and their staff finally managed to reach the fleet of official motorcars waiting for them, like a swarm of huge black beetles, and were whisked away.
“Two residences are being put at the disposal of the delegates,” Henry jotted down. “One in Hans Place and the other in Cadogan Gardens. The latter will house the secretaries and the Republicans who have been brought along as general dogsbodies.” He crossed out the last two words and substituted “attendants.”
Henry’s personal welcoming party arrived at the station in two private motorcars. As they introduced themselves, he assigned names he knew to faces: Ernest and Winifred Mansell, Donald Baines, Ruth Mansell Moore, Ninian Speer. With the exception of Winifred, all were related through ties of blood. They shared a Mansell ancestor who had begun as a ship’s chandler in Dublin in the eighteenth century, then moved to England and expanded into importing linen, cotton, and ramie. Now the family was heavily invested in stocks and shares. “Everyone’s doing it,” Donald Baines assured Henry as they drove through London. “Postwar boom, you know, businesses growing like weeds. Opportunities everywhere for a shrewd man, what? Can’t help making money. Give you a few tips myself if you like. Though I’m sure you have your own broker, of course.”
Ernest and Winifred Mansell were a silver-haired couple in their late middle age who had grown so alike they might be mistaken for brother and sister. If one started a sentence, the other finished it seamlessly. They rarely spoke directly to each other; it was as if their thoughts flowed together into a river. Ella and I will be like that someday, Henry promised himself.
For the duration of the treaty talks he would stay in the Mansells’ home, with the other cousins taking turns driving him around the city or wherever else he wanted to go. “That’s not necessary,” he assured them. “I don’t want to be any trouble. You’re good enough to put me up and—”
“Nonsense,” Ruth Moore interrupted. “We’ve been eager to meet you, and this is a perfect opportunity to get to know one another. I do so hope we shall see a lot of you while you’re here.”
She was one of those women whose age was unguessable as a result of having enough money to take excellent care of herself. She was also wearing a very short skirt, only a few inches below her knees. The delighted Henry hardly knew where to look.
“Be careful,” warned Ninian Speer. “Ruth’s already survived two husbands and is holding auditions for a third.”
“But he would have to have money,” Ruth said. “Do you have money, Mr. Mooney?”
He was startled. No Irish person would ask such a question. Becoming aware that the others were watching him covertly, he launched into a circumlocution that lasted for several minutes and avoided giving a straight answer.
Later, in the Mansells’ elegantly appointed guest room, he sat down to jot a quick note to Ella. “Your relatives seem most amiable,” he commented. But he soon discovered that their English manners were a wall to hide behind. He could not tell what they really thought about anything. He could not even tell if they liked him.
At dinner there were snatches of conversation that by themselves meant nothing, yet were cumulatively disturbing. “Henry, did you know her first husband by any chance? No? What a pity. Fine man, John Rutledge. Artistic, like Ella. They had so much in common.”
“I think education is so important, Henry, don’t you? Of course Ella will want her children to attend school here in England. They should have every opportunity.”
“
When we visited Florence before the war…were you ever in Florence, Henry? No? Everyone should see Florence—a man can hardly call himself cultured otherwise.”
“You want directions to what? Oh, the Catholic church. I forgot…yes, of course we shall take you. Do you want to go to confession, communion, that sort of thing? Or just call in out of courtesy?”
AT eleven in the morning on the eleventh of October, 1921, Michael Collins, whose father was the seventh son of a seventh son, sat down with his fellow delegates to negotiate the future of Ireland. They had been given plenipotentiary status by the Dáil, officially investing them with the power of independent action. However, they were to keep the Dáil fully apprised of developments, and Collins and Griffith were expected to report back personally during the negotiations.
Across a dividing sea of highly polished mahogany in the cabinet room in Downing Street the Irish delegates and secretaries faced the prime minister; Baron Birkenhead, the lord chancellor; Austin Chamberlain, the leader of the House of Commons; and Winston Churchill, who was now secretary of state for the colonies. These four were flanked by the attorney general, the secretary for war, and the chief secretary for Ireland. Seven formidable men.
Outside, journalists thronged Downing Street, interviewing recognizable dignitaries, people who merely looked important, casual passersby, and when all else failed, one another. Henry chose instead to walk the few blocks to Hans Place and interview the delegation’s housekeeper.
During a conversational skirmish at the door they discovered that both had County Clare antecedents. The housekeeper promptly invited him in. She showed him to a small anteroom where she fed him endless potted meat sandwiches and gossip. Among the tidbits Henry learned was that Michael Collins held himself apart from the others. He came and went alone, or accompanied only by Ned Broy, and never told anyone where he was going or when he would return.
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