“Everything smells new,” Ella remarked as they waited to be shown to their table. “How appropriate for a new Ireland.”
“A fragment of a new Ireland,” Henry said under his breath.
“Sorry?”
“I asked if you would like an aperitif before dinner.”
“Wherever did you learn that habit?”
“In London.”
“How cosmopolitan you’ve become,” she teased him. “But now we really must discuss the wedding. I know men aren’t terribly interested in such things, but Ava says we must have your guest list as soon as possible, and—”
The headwaiter interrupted to lead them to their table. Blessed distractions: being seated, unfolding napkins, consulting the menu. Henry ran an exploratory tongue around his sore mouth. Something soft, I think. Soup. “Ah yes, the wedding. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that.” At that moment their drinks arrived. While Ella toyed with a dry sherry, Henry took a large swallow of whiskey. Then another. It burned all the way down. “It’s time we…mmm…faced up to certain difficulties, Ella.” He cast a wild glance around the room, wondering what would happen if he threw down his napkin and ran for the door.
“Are you jilting me?” Ella’s eyes sparkled with mischief.
“Under no circumstances! It’s just that…” Choosing his words carefully, he circled closer to the real problem without tackling it head-on. “Well, we do come from different backgrounds.”
“Henry, why are you trying to put silly little obstacles in the way now?”
Silly little obstacles. Henry stared down into the amber liquid at the bottom of his glass. Be brave, Mooney. You can’t put this off forever. He drained the last drops of whiskey.
“Then there’s the matter of religion,” he said. Keeping his eyes fixed on her face, he repeated what Father O’Flanagan had told him.
To his amazement, Ella smiled. “I knew that already, dearest. I made it my business to inquire a long time ago.”
His jaw dropped. “How long ago?”
“Around the same time I began subscribing to the Irish Bulletin.”
“You were a mile ahead of me! I must confess, I don’t understand women at all.”
Her dimples winked at him. “You’re the only man I know who’s brave enough to admit that. It makes me love you all the more.”
“So although you knew what was involved, you agreed to marry me anyway?”
“Did you think me so shallow I would only love a Protestant? Henry Mooney, I never suspected you were such a bigot.” But she laughed. Ella Rutledge reached across the table and caught both his hands in hers, and laughed.
LOUISE too was laughing as she told Henry, “I just had to wait up to give you this letter. It arrived this afternoon, and the stamp is one of the first issued by the new government. It has ‘Saorstat Éireann’ on it, see?”
“What’s so funny about that?” Henry wondered.
“The posts-and-telegraphs lad who delivered it obviously has no Irish. He said it meant ‘Sore-arse Erin.’ ”
A committee was appointed to draft the new constitution, for which purpose they took over a room in the Shelbourne Hotel, overlooking Stephen’s Green.
“Nice work if you can get it,” Henry Mooney commented.
AS the military handover continued and more and more British barracks were turned over to the new Free State Army, the divisions within the army became more apparent. The brigades began to split into pro-and anti-Treaty, with the anti-Treaty men racing to occupy buildings ahead of orders. Digging in, entrenching.
But the British soldiers were leaving. That alone was a wonder. People flocked to their churches to offer prayers of thanksgiving.
Henry wrote, “After more than seven hundred years of foreign occupation the liberation of Ireland comes like a sunrise. Like every sunrise it ushers in an unpredictable new day. What now? This is a nation in a state of becoming. This is a people terrified of change, yet embracing change in an act of awesome courage.
“Over the centuries the English destroyed our confidence as a race. That is how they held us in thrall so long. As long as we try to compete with them at being Englishmen we will always be second best.
“But we can be the best Irishmen ever.”
WHEN he contemplated the upcoming changes in his own life, he had to admit to himself that he was terrified. And exhilarated.
ON the twelfth of February Eamon de Valera opened his campaign against the Treaty. He argued instead for his own Document 2 and an external association with Britain that would give Ireland complete sovereignty. One of the many items in the Treaty that he rejected was the retention of an armed British presence in Ireland’s ports and territorial waters. Britain had insisted this was necessary for its own national security.
De Valera’s concern was only with Irish national security.
As the British military relinquished its hold, the Free State Army continued to expand. Henry reported to his readers that General Eoin O’Duffy had been named chief of staff, succeeding Richard Mulcahy. New uniforms were hastily designed and ordered. The departing British turned over a number of their weapons. The first armored vehicle the Provisional Government received was a Rolls-Royce Whippet with a rotating turret containing a Vickers machine gun. The Whippet was delivered to Portobello Barracks in Dublin, but within a matter of days was sent to Limerick on a training and reconnaissance mission.
“There’s trouble down here,” a colleague at the Limerick Leader informed Henry by telephone. “When the British troops pulled out of Limerick Barracks they handed them over to the Free State Army, but Commandant O’Malley of the Mid-Limerick Brigade has sent for anti-Treaty men from Tipperary to try to seize both the barracks and King John’s Castle. The pro-Treaty men are holding them off and some sort of compromise seems likely, but I don’t like this, Henry. I don’t like this one bit.”
“Neither do I,” Henry admitted.
At that moment the telephone operator cut in. “Nor me. If anyone tries to seize the telephone exchange I’m going home.”
Henry wrote to his brothers, asking them to keep a closer eye on their mother’s cottage. “We may be in for a turbulent time,” he wrote without giving details.
On its return trip to Dublin the Whippet stopped at Templemore Barracks for refueling. The crew was met by men in uniform who politely informed them they were now prisoners of the Irish Republican Army. They were soon released and put on a train for Dublin, but the armored car was sent back to Limerick and turned over to Commandant Ernie O’Malley of the Irish Republican Army.
The first parade of the Free State Army in their new dark green uniforms was lustily cheered in Dublin.
THE Sinn Féin Árd Fheis was held on the twenty-second of February. The two army factions, represented by Seán MacKeon for the Free Staters and Dan Breen for the Republicans, met at the Mansion House to try to resolve their differences. Both sides argued earnestly but without rancor. Neither would move. Although the negotiators remained personal friends, they left the conference more philosophically opposed than ever.
After heated discussions between Eamon de Valera and Michael Collins, the Provisional Government agreed to postpone the general election for three months. In the meantime the new Free State constitution would be published to help clarify the issue for voters.
Chapter Thirty-seven
February 28, 1922
EGYPTIAN INDEPENDENCE PROCLAIMED BY LORD
ALLENBY
EGYPTIAN NATIONALISTS CLAIM FRAUD AS BRITAIN
WILL RETAIN SUEZ CANAL AND LARGE MILITARY
PRESENCE
ON the fifteenth of March, 1922, Eamon de Valera assembled the Dáil delegates who had voted against the Treaty and formed a new political organization under the name Cumann na Poblachta, the Republican Party. It was opposed by the entire British establishment and many elements of the Irish press as well. Most nationalist newspapers agreed that the Treaty was a stopgap measure on the way to full independence.
Erskine Childers invited Henry to join the staff of the party’s weekly journal, which was to be called An Poblacht—The Republic. Henry politely declined. “I don’t think it would be in my best interests, Erskine. I’m getting married in the autumn, you know, and I can’t do anything that might adversely affect my income. For a freelance journalist to be so closely associated with one political group would…well…you understand.”
“I thought you had more guts than that, Henry.”
“This isn’t about courage. Did I not work for the Bulletin when the entire British government was after our scalps?”
His argument was lost on Childers, who had never needed to worry about money.
MONEY was the last of the obstacles, the one Henry could never discuss with Ella, who so freely dismissed all the others, making molehills of his mountains. He wanted more for Ella than she seemed to want for herself. He found it hard to accept the unselfishness of women. Maybe, he thought, I just don’t trust happiness.
ON the twentieth of March Eamon de Valera spoke to a large crowd in O’Connell Street. Henry Mooney was among those who heard him outline the major points of his proposed Document 2. De Valera then warned his audience, “if we continue on that movement which was begun when the Volunteers were started, and we suppose this Treaty is ratified by your votes, then these men will have to march over the dead bodies of their own brothers. They will have to wade through Irish blood.”1
His words struck a responsive chord with many. “Bugger an oath of allegiance to the Crown!” a man near Henry stated emphatically. “Bugger dominion status too. And bugger Mick Collins while you’re at it. I ain’t no Free Stater, I’m a Republican, and I have the bullet in me leg to prove it. Give us the Republic, Dev!” he shouted.
An echo of his emotion ran through the crowd, an angry muttering that seemed to gather in strength like an ocean wave.
Then someone else called out, “I can shout ‘Up the Republic,’ but how the hell am I supposed to shout ‘Up the External Association’ and keep a straight face?”
The crowd roared with laughter and the tension eased. For a while.
WHEN Henry called at Herbert Place that night to take Ella to dinner, he found the atmosphere uncharacteristically somber. Ella met him with reddened eyes. “We’ve just heard from my aunt in Belfast with details of the dreadful rioting up there, Henry. We’re so worried about Mother’s family.”
The British government, confident that the Treaty would be accepted in southern Ireland, was tightening its control over the north. Unionists and Orangemen were freely given licenses for guns. Murder gangs composed of members of the Royal Ulster Constabulary were joining with the B-Specials to conduct a pogrom against Catholics. Belfast had erupted in violence.
“Surely there’s no trouble in the area where your relatives live,” Henry said to Ella.
“Not yet, but Uncle Will’s business downtown has been burnt out because he employs Catholics. Aunt May is terrified their house will be next. She says they can hear gunfire and people shouting in the streets at night.”
“If you’ll promise to stop worrying,” Henry said, “I’ll tell you something that not many people know yet. Michael Collins is meeting with Sir James Craig to sign a pact of cooperation to restore peaceful conditions in the north. Craig will agree to recruit Catholics into the Northern Ireland constabulary and to protect the citizenry from sectarian violence. Collins will agree to take action against the IRA units operating in the north from bases in the south.”
“Are you sure they’ll both keep their word?”
Henry answered cautiously. “Mick always keeps his—in his own way.” He did not repeat to her a remark one of Collins’ aides had made: “Mick’s like a tinker swapping donkeys at the fair. He’s suspicious of what he’s getting, but happy enough that he’s not giving an honest beast either.”
IN the Craig—Collins Agreement Michael Collins tried to build into the partitioned counties a parity of esteem under the law. But as the days went by, it became obvious that Craig was not living up to his side of the arrangement.
Nothing was done to prevent sectarian assaults on Catholics. If anything, they were more frequent and more brutal than ever.
“This is what comes of trusting the British,” Eamon de Valera told his followers. “By accepting the Treaty we abandon our countrymen in the north to a cruel fate. We must fight for them; we must fight for all of Ireland.”
HENRY called upon the minister of defense for an interview about the situation. Richard Mulcahy looked more grave than Henry had ever seen him. “I can’t give you anything you can print, not right now,” he said. “The situation is…delicate, to say the least. I’ve sent a memorandum to Arthur Griffith voicing my concern about the increasing loyalist violence and the part the British are playing in financing and arming those responsible. It’s up to Arthur to make representations directly to the British government.”
“Is that all you can do?”
“No.” Mulcahy dropped his voice. “This is strictly off the record. I want your word that you won’t breathe it to a living soul. Ever.”
“You have it,” vowed Henry.
“I’ve arranged with Liam Lynch and the IRA executive committee to send some of the Republican guns north for the defense of the Ulster Catholics. Whatever about borders and treaties, we mustn’t abandon our people stranded up there.”2
“Does Mick Collins know you did that?”
“Who do you think suggested it? Mick’s furious about the pogrom; in fact, he’s come close to walking away from the whole process.
“We couldn’t send arms direct because the weapons we have were given to us by the British and they could identify them. But with Mick’s knowledge and support I’m replacing what Liam sends north with guns from the Free State arsenal.”
Wheels within wheels, Henry thought. Aloud he said, “Given the tensions right now, do you trust Lynch?”
Mulcahy’s eyes snapped. “Trust Liam? Of course I do. We were comrades in arms.”
ON the twenty-sixth of March the Irish Republican Army held a convention. Liam Lynch was elected chief of staff. A new IRA constitution was to be drawn up as soon as possible.
On the eighth of April Winston Churchill, speaking at Dundee, Scotland, said, “It is possible that Irishmen will kill and murder each other and destroy Irish property and cripple Irish prosperity for some time before they realize that they, and they alone, will have to pay the bill in life and treasure.”3 Four days later he announced that an additional four thousand rifles, twenty-two hundred revolvers, six machine guns, and large amounts of ammunition had been given by Britain to the Free State Army. He implied that further arms to use against the Republicans would be supplied as needed.
From Belfast, Sir James Craig announced the appointment of Sir Henry Wilson as his personal military advisor.
In the dead of night on April thirteenth, members of the First and Second Battalions of the Dublin Brigade of the Irish Republican Army drove through the city in motorized vehicles laden with sandbags and rolls of barbed wire. They parked behind the Four Courts and quietly made their way inside.
The Four Courts, another of James Gandon’s masterpieces, extended almost five hundred yards along the north side of the Liffey. The immense structure consisted of a main block in the classical style, fronted by a Corinthian portico and linked by arched gateways to two flanking wings. The name was taken from the four courts—Chancery, King’s Bench, Common Pleas, and Exchequer—that opened off the central rotunda. Rising above the rotunda was a huge masonry drum supporting a copper-clad dome much larger than that of the Customs House. Its dominating grandeur was visible for miles. Since the Act of Union the Four Courts had been the most visible symbol of British law in Ireland.
Under the direction of Rory O’Connor, Liam Mellows, and Ernie O’Malley, the Republicans b
olted the exterior doors of the Four Courts and fortified the windows with sandbags. They also began digging a tunnel into the sewers to use as an emergency exit.
As they worked they sang rebel songs.
Before dawn another company from the Dublin Brigade seized Kilmainham Jail.
HENRY Mooney awoke to a fist pounding on his door. He pulled himself out of a deliciously erotic dream of Ella Rutledge and reached for the pistol in his bedside locker. While he fumbled with the weapon, fuzzily trying to remember how to use it, the door was flung open.
“For God’s sake, Henry, don’t shoot me!” cried Frank Gallagher.
“Jaysus on toast! What are you doing here?”
“Why don’t you have a telephone installed in this house?” Gallagher countered, panting.
In hasty sentences that tumbled over one another, he related the night’s events while Henry pulled on his clothes. “As soon as this gets out, every newspaperman in Dublin will be heading for the Four Courts,” Gallagher said, “but the Republicans have asked for you in particular. They want to give you their official statement.”
“Are you serious?”
“I am of course. Come on…and you’d better bring that pistol with you. God knows what Dublin’s going to be like an hour from now.”
The two men ran at top speed through the early morning streets. The customary drays, floats, and delivery carts were already making their rounds and shop owners were unlocking their premises, but there was a tentative air about everything. People glanced nervously over their shoulders. A woman sweeping the pavement in front of a greengrocer’s shop called out to Frank and Henry, “Where you lot goin’?”
“The Four Courts,” Henry replied, checking his pace.
“Wouldn’t go down there it I wuz you. Them rebels has started all over agin.” She shook her head. “More shootin’ and killin’ and it ain’t nuthin’ to do with me. I’ll still have to be sweepin’ me footpath t’morry.”
1921 Page 38