1921

by Morgan Llywelyn

  At the foot of O’Connell Street, where the mighty bronze statue of Daniel O’Connell the Liberator brooded, the two men turned right and sprinted along the cobblestone quays. Bachelor’s Walk, Ormond Quay Lower, Ormond Quay Upper with the ancient bulk of Christ Church across the river—they could go no farther. A company of Civic Guards was installing barricades at Chancery Street and at the foot of the newly renamed O’Donovan Rossa Bridge. Beyond the barricade Henry glimpsed Republicans patrolling in front of the Four Courts with rifles on their shoulders.

  Several reporters were already at the barricade, trying to get the attention of a short, dark man in a tweed coat, who had just emerged from the east gate. Rory O’Connor, a former member of the Irish Republican Brotherhood, had been director of engineering for the army since 1918. O’Connor ignored the clamoring reporters, but when he saw Henry he came down to the barricade to meet him.

  “Hullo, Henry. I’m glad Frank was able to find you for us.”

  “Hullo, Rory. I—”

  Another reporter rudely thrust himself between them. “Who are you?” he shouted at O’Connor.

  “Just what do you think you’re doing?” someone else cried.

  “I am an officer of the Irish Republican Army,” O’Connor said crisply, “and we have taken over these premises as our general headquarters. The ongoing battle for the Republic will be organized from here—where British law no longer pertains. Now I have some further remarks for Mr. Mooney, if you will excuse us?” He nodded to the Civic Guards, who obligingly opened the barricade and let Henry through.

  “Will you see that what I am about to say gets the widest possible distribution?” O’Connor asked Henry as the two men moved away from the increasing frenzy at the barricade.

  “You may be certain of it. And I appreciate the opportunity.”

  “It’s difficult to know who to trust,” said O’Connor. “I recall that Mick Collins once gave a private interview to an American reporter called Carl Ackerman who was working for the Philadelphia Ledger—and as a secret informer for the British.4 The things Mick told Ackerman went straight to Lloyd George.” O’Connor gave a sardonic smile. “The Big Fellow’s not always as smart as he thinks he is.

  “But we know you, Henry, and we trust you. You’ve always given everybody a fair shake, and there’s not many doing that these days.”

  Henry waited with pencil poised.

  “Here’s what we want to tell people,” said O’Connor. “Write it down just as I give it to you. There is nothing in our actions in the nature of a revolution or a coup d’état. The Republican Army is not now associated with any political organization. But I am safe in saying that if the army were ever to follow a political leader, Mr. de Valera is the man.

  “My comrades and I recognize Dáil Éireann as an institution, but the majority in the Dáil have done a thing they had no right to do. A people must never be encouraged to surrender their independence.”5.

  He stopped speaking. Henry stopped writing. “Is that all?”

  “That’s all. There’s nothing more to say—except thank you for coming. And wish us luck.” O’Connor saluted smartly, turned on his heel, and marched back into the Four Courts.

  A bemused Henry returned through the barricade. The crowd of reporters had grown substantially and were elbowing one another in their effort to interview him, but he managed to push his way through to where Frank Gallagher was waiting for him.

  “Well? Did he talk to you?”

  Henry showed him the notebook. Gallagher read swiftly, then grinned. “Good on you,” he breathed. “Oh, good on you, lads! Go for it, give ’em hell! Up the Republic!” he shouted loudly enough for the men in the Four Courts to hear.

  Henry was dismayed. “Do you realize what you’re encouraging?”

  “Course I do. The Free State’s nothing but a ploy to keep disobedient children in line with false promises. Griffith and Collins made a dreadful mistake, but it’s not too late to undo it.” Noting Henry’s expression, Gallagher added, “I take it you don’t agree?”

  “I can’t agree, Frank. Mick Collins intends to use the Free State as a cover while he deconstructs the Treaty bit by bit, until we have the Republic after all. It may take years, but my conscience tells me that’s the only reasonable approach.”

  “Then you must go with your conscience,” Gallagher said sadly, “and I with mine.” He held out his hand. “Will you shake with me, Henry? For friendship’s sake, and while we still can?”

  Henry seized his hand and pumped it hard. He did not trust himself to speak around the lump in his throat.

  ALERTED by the Republican action, the Free State Army hurried to strengthen its position. By the sixteenth a pro-Treaty company was occupying Sligo Town Hall, and there were troop movements throughout the island.

  With the IRA men in the Four Courts now a symbol of open defiance, law and order was breaking down. Violent crimes were on the increase.

  Henry wrote of the gathering storm: “Neither the Provisional Government nor the Republicans have right totally on their side. If one party occupies a fixed point and a second party occupies another fixed point, and neither of them is willing to give an inch, there is only one solution—not war, which is merely an extension of the same principle, two parties on opposing sides. The answer is for both parties to move to a third point, as in an equilateral triangle. There something can be fashioned which is neither one nor the other, but the best of both.”

  He hoped de Valera would read his words, particularly the part about the equilateral triangle. The image might appeal to the mathematician in him.

  A forlorn hope, a shouting in the wilderness.

  THE IRA in the countryside took over a number of barracks formerly occupied by pro-Treaty troops, some of whom stayed on to join them. The Republicans were disorganized, however, because their brigades were still accustomed to operating autonomously. They were also having trouble provisioning themselves. The Dáil was allocating money only for Free State troops. As they had done in 1916, the Republicans applied to local shopkeepers for supplies and left receipts. When that proved insufficient for their growing needs, they began to raid banks and seize Provisional Government funds.

  To counter the losses of men to the Republican side, the Free State Army further increased recruitment. Inexperienced soldiers were inclined to shoot at shadows. In Dublin tensions mounted as the sound of random gunfire was once more heard in the streets.

  The Republicans were still ensconced in the Four Courts, issuing appeals to the nation to keep on fighting until the battle was won. Among their number was young Seán MacBride, the son of Maud Gonne MacBride and the executed Major John MacBride.

  IN Northern Ireland Catholics continued to be killed with impunity. Whole families were beaten to death. Parents were slain in front of their children. A five-year-old lad named John Devlin was shot in cold blood while innocently playing in the street with his friends, and died the next day. No one was arrested.

  In reprisal a Protestant family was bombed out of their home. Two of their sons were shot. When Henry called upon the Mansells the day the story broke in the papers, he found Edwin stiff with outrage. “Damned papist savages,” he said. “Murdering innocent people.”

  Our molehills are becoming mountains again, Henry thought.

  The IRA began conducting armed raids along the border. Loyalists were convinced, not without justification, that they meant to sweep aside the boundaries and reunite the island by force. There were more shootings, woundings, killings. Sir James Craig introduced a draconian measure called the Special Powers Act that made the possession of firearms punishable by death. But the legislation was only employed against Catholics.

  ON the twentieth Michael Collins made a speech in College Green. In an article for the Longford Leader Henry reported, “The crowd the Big Fellow drew was larger than the one that had gathered to hear the Long Fellow. Collins urged the people of Ireland to support the pro-Treaty candidates in the upcoming elec
tion, because the Treaty would give them the freedom to get freedom. He also assured his audience that the boundary commission would transfer large areas of Northern Ireland to Free State jurisdiction.”

  “I hope he’s right,” Henry remarked privately.

  That same week members of the Irish Republican Army marched down Grafton Street carrying rifles. The Civic Guards watched them without interference.

  “This is agony,” Henry wrote to Ursula in Clare.

  On the twenty-fifth of April an officer of the Third Cork Brigade of the IRA was shot dead when he called at the house of a Protestant family near Bandon on business. Within days ten Protestants in the area had been shot dead.

  An outraged de Valera announced, “The German Palatines, the French Huguenots, the English Protestants flying from the fires of Smithfield…in this land of ours always found safe asylum. That glorious record must not be tarnished by acts against a helpless minority.”6

  Pro- and anti-Treaty representatives met at the Mansion House to try to resolve their differences. Although a Dáil committee was appointed to explore possible solutions, Cathal Brugha flatly stated that he was sick of politics. He would never fire a shot against comrades, he said, and preferred to die by an English or Orange bullet.7

  The conference ended in failure.

  DURING the first week in May open fighting broke out in Kilkenny and there were casualties on both sides. The matter was patched up, but only temporarily, when Free State and Republican forces agreed between themselves to share the local army barracks.

  AMERICA was experiencing a postwar boom. New magazines appearing almost weekly were clamoring for material. They paid amounts that seemed to an Irishman incredible—as much as a penny a word. Henry was finding them a ready market for his work. But when he referred to “raindrops glittering on a blackthorn hedge” in an article on the looming civil war in Ireland, he received an unsettling response from America. “Please send us more writing with Irish color,” he was urged. “Our readers also would love reminiscent pieces about the Ould Sod and the Little People.”

  “Irish color.” What in God’s name is that—words written in green ink? The Ould Sod. The Little People. I’m trying to tell them what’s really going on in Ireland, and what they want is flights of fancy. But they were willing to pay for it; oh yes, they were willing to pay. The question of being able to support a wife seemed settled.

  ON May twentieth an agreement was taken to defer the formal decision on the Treaty until after the general election. “The makeup of the new Dáil will determine the outcome,” Henry reported.

  General Macready, who was still in Ireland, began concentrating the remaining British forces in Dublin. If the Republicans won the election, he intended to seize the capital city immediately.

  MEMBERS of the IRA were sending Catholic children from Northern Ireland to safety in the south. Families were opening their homes to as many as they could take. A number from Belfast had already arrived in Dublin when the Provisional Government announced they must be sent back as soon as possible. Granting them refugee status, it declared, might prejudice the new government’s own fragile position.

  Henry’s article about the children’s plight appeared in several newspapers, including the Clare Champion. Within days he received a letter from Ursula Halloran.

  “Dear Uncle Henry,

  “Those poor children must be as frightened as I was when Papa found me. They do not understand why anyone should hate them. Neither do I, and I want to do something for them. You know everybody who matters. Can you arrange for a few of the littlest ones to come to us instead of being sent back? Uncle Frank and Aunt Norah say we can care for at least half a dozen here on the farm, for as long as needs be. I have already told Lucy and Eileen they must help.” I’ll just bet you have, Little Business. The letter continued, “I am sure Papa will agree with the plan, although he is not here now.”

  That last sentence chilled Henry. If Ned was not at the farm, he must be away with the Army. The Republican army. And this time he would not be content to serve as a noncombatant.

  When Henry told Ella about the refugee scheme, she asked if he was taking the children to Clare himself.

  “I need to stay in Dublin to cover the election campaign. I’ll put them on the train, and Ursula and Frank will meet them at the other end.”

  “I shouldn’t think the poor mites will be in any condition to make such a journey alone. Let me accompany them, Henry. I should like to meet the rest of the Hallorans. Besides, I can serve as interpreter. I understand a strong Belfast accent, and that’s not something everyone can do.”

  “There’s no need for you to involve yourself in this.”

  She gave him a look of mock severity. “Since the ship of our lives is in your hands, the least you can do is let me take an active part in sailing it.”

  “Aye aye, Cap’n,” Henry said with a chuckle.

  No matter what had passed between himself and Ned, he felt confident no one at the farm would be so untactful as to mention Síle to his fiancée.

  ELLA stood at the window, watching Henry walk away down the street. She did not hear her brother come up behind her until Edwin said, “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

  “Helping some children who need help, Edwin.”

  “That’s not what I mean. This marriage of yours. Perhaps it is…ill timed.”

  She turned to face him. “I thought you liked Henry.”

  “I do, very much. But listen to me, Ella. You know I have only your best interests at heart. Every day clients are coming into my office to update their wills because they expect another war. Perhaps a resumption of the Anglo-Irish conflict, perhaps civil war among the Irish themselves. We—”

  “I am Irish by birth,” she interrupted, “and so are you.”

  “We are British,” he replied firmly.

  “If I were marrying Wallace Congreve would you be objecting now?”

  “If you were marrying Wallace you would continue to enjoy the sort of life you’ve always had, and there would be no question about which faith your children were raised in.”

  “It’s the same God, Edwin! If that’s your only objection it isn’t good enough.”

  “In normal times I would agree with you,” he admitted, “but these are hardly normal times. Think of what’s happened to Uncle Will and Aunt May. I don’t want you caught in a crossfire, which you might be with a Catholic husband. As your nearest male relative I’m responsible for you.”

  “Have you never heard of women’s suffrage?” she cried in exasperation. “Since 1918 women over thirty have actually been allowed to vote! Well, I’m over thirty now, and I’m going to marry Henry Mooney with or without your approval. And I’m taking those children to Clare, too.”

  Edwin was astonished. “I’ve never known you to be headstrong, Ella.”

  “Perhaps I’ve never known myself.”

  IN late afternoon the Pro-Cathedral was almost deserted as Henry slipped into a rear pew. There were only two or three shawled women and an old man mumbling his rosary, rattling the beads against the back of the pew in front of him.

  Kneeling, Henry bowed his head over his folded hands and closed his eyes.

  I always seem to be asking you for something. Yet I don’t uphold my end, do I? I hardly remember the last time I went to Mass—Christmas, I suppose. And never confession. You know my sins already; I don’t feel any need to tell them to a priest as well. You will absolve me or not as you see fit. You are all-powerful, and I’m not. That’s the problem. I’m doing my best, but I beseech you to help me protect the people I care about.

  He silently recited the names of those he loved most, and behind his closed lids pictured each familiar face in turn: Ella. Ned. Little Business.

  Síle. Rising unbidden from a walled-off compartment of his heart.

  ON the twelfth of June, Grace Gifford Plunkett, widow of Joseph Plunkett, reputedly was seen on the roof of the Four Courts, blowing a trumpet t
o summon all true Republicans to the aid of the men inside.

  That same day Henry put Ella and six little refugees from Belfast on the train. While the porter loaded her crocodile-skin suitcase and their shabby bundles into the railway carriage, the children clustered around Ella, pressing against her with instinctive trust. Henry stood with his hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth on his heels.

  “Henry Mooney, why are you smiling like that?”

  “I was…mmm…imagining these were your chicks, Ella. Yours and mine.”

  Her cheeks turned pink. “Is that what you want? Six children?”

  “I want all that God sends us, I suppose.”

  “Oh my. You are Catholic, aren’t you.”

  “This doesn’t have anything to do with religion. I simply love you.”

  Her blush deepened. “Please, Henry, people will hear you.” But she was pleased. “I wish you were coming with us.”

  “I do too, but remember you promised to be back here by the sixteenth in time to vote. Meanwhile, enjoy yourself. Get to know Ursula, she’s something special. You can explain the meaning of the word ‘precocious’ to her if she doesn’t know it already.”

  Henry watched the train pull out of Kingsbridge Station, following it as far as he could with his eyes.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  HENRY spent the next several days trying to cover as many political speeches as possible. The campaign was not without its lighter moments. While Michael Collins was making an impassioned pro-Treaty speech from the back of an open motorcar in Sligo, a Republican jumped into the front seat and drove the car away at high speed. Collins had to vault over the back, to the vast amusement of the crowd.

  He laughed too.

  ON the morning of the fifteenth Henry received a telegram from Ella, telling him she would be on the last train that night. He met her at the station with an armful of roses.