“You look tired,” were her first words to him.
“And you’re positively glowing. Your visit to the farm must have done you some good.”
“I loved it—and Ursula. You’re right, she is something special. She told me her father has been teaching her at home, but that’s not enough for such an exceptionally bright girl. There are some fine schools on the Continent educating young women to a high standard; perhaps, if I make some inquiries, her father might consider one for her.”
“Did you see Ned?” Henry asked warily.
“No, he’s with the Republican forces somewhere. Frank did mention that you and he had a disagreement—over the Treaty, I gather.”
“Mmm.”
“Well, you must mend your fences with him before the wedding, Henry. I know you’ll want him for your best man. Ava already has him on one of her interminable lists.”
“Mmm,” Henry said again.
“And your family,” Ella went on, while he collected her suitcase and they went in search of a cab. “We really must pay a formal call on your family soon, so I can get to know your mother and your brothers and sisters.”
Get to know my mother. Great bouncing Barabbas!
That night Henry composed a long-overdue letter to Hannah Mooney and one for each of his siblings. He felt as if he were dropping bombs into the pillar letterbox on the corner of Talbot Street.
The first reply came from Pauline. “Mam says,” wrote Henry’s sister, who no longer seemed to have opinions of her own, “to tell you that widow is marrying you for your money.”
Of course she is, Mam. Why else would any woman marry a worthless creature like me? With a start Henry realized he was talking out loud. Does everyone carry on lifelong one-sided conversations with their parents, or is it just me?
Neither Bernard nor Noel responded to his letters. Alice wrote to say she did not think she would not be allowed out of the convent to attend the wedding, so she would not bother Reverend Mother by asking.
THE long-promised constitution for the Irish Free State did not appear in the daily newspapers until the morning of polling day. As soon as he was dressed, Henry went to the nearest newsagency to get the morning papers. Between bites of egg and sausage he fumed to Louise, “What are they playing at, waiting until today to publish? Now most of the voters will go to the polls with no idea what they’re voting for.”
“Maybe that’s for the best. A lot of them are like me, Henry. They know they can’t understand the issues, so they’ll vote for the man.”
Stabbing his forefinger at the Irish Times, Henry said, “Here’s a perfect example. The bishop of Cloyne has a letter in here saying he’s subscribed to the election campaigns of pro-Treaty candidates. That’s the same as telling his flock to vote for them. So they will, I’m afraid. Without bothering to think for themselves, they will.”
“I thought you supported the Treaty.”
“I support the right of the people to make up their own minds, Louise.”
“But the newspapers say the Treaty is best for us. You know we believe what we read in the papers. Why, we trust you, Henry, almost like we trust the Church.”
She meant it as a compliment.
Henry gave her a long, thoughtful look. Then, leaving his breakfast to go cold, he went to his room and began work on an article that could not possibly appear in print for several days. He felt compelled to write it anyway.
“Who appointed journalists unimpeachable arbiters of the truth?” he asked his readers. “As a journalist myself I can tell you that each of us, no matter how loudly we proclaim our objectivity, has a personal opinion. These opinions influence our writing down to the choice of the most insignificant words. Through language we manipulate the reader in ways he does not suspect. Intentionally or not, we seek to make him—or her—think as we do.
“So I tell you this: do not take anything you read in the papers at face value. Question it, test it, bring your own critical faculties to bear. For too many centuries we Irish have accepted whatever ‘truth’ we have been told by figures of supposed authority. It is time we thought for ourselves.”
Then he put on his hat and went out to vote.
FROM London, Sir Henry Wilson denounced both the Treaty and the election, and reiterated Britain’s right to Ireland. He urged Sir James Craig to prepare for all-out war against the Republicans.
TWO days after the election, while the votes were still being counted, the IRA held another convention at the Mansion House. Henry applied to cover it, but admission was strictly limited. He waited outside in a driving rain until at last he saw Tom Barry coming out, then hurried to intercept him. “What’s happened in there, Tom? Is there any chance you might rethink your position and make it up with Richard Mulcahy and Michael Collins?”
Barry paused to talk under the shelter of Henry’s umbrella. “None whatever. Dick Mulcahy is the finest executive officer I ever saw. He’s calm, meticulous, and his integrity is beyond question. But we no longer accept his authority as minister for defense. He’s a by-the-book soldier, and we can’t fight this war by the book.”1
You underestimate him, Henry thought, recalling Mulcahy’s secret arrangement with Lynch to send guns to the north. But he had given his word never to tell anyone.
“As for Mick,” Barry went on, “personally I’m as fond of him as I ever was, and that’s considerable. But the Brits have got to the Big Fellow—he’s singing off their hymn sheet now. And we won’t.”
“So things go on as before?”
“Not exactly. You may not know this, but Collins and de Valera have been working together on a pact to reunify the army. More discussions, negotiations, all that class of thing. When it was presented tonight, Liam Lynch and some of the IRA executive supported the pact, but many of the lads wouldn’t wear it. Too much has happened; they don’t trust any political scheme anymore.
“I brought forward a proposal to give the British seventy-two hours to get out of the country altogether, then terminate the truce. That would free us to launch an armed attack on the six counties and take them back. I’m convinced action is all we need to unite the army again, but Lynch and his crowd didn’t agree. My motion was defeated. Narrowly,” he added. “So we’ve done what we had to do.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means the Republicans who agree with me have repudiated Liam Lynch and appointed a new chief of staff. Joe McKelvey. He’s a good man, a Tyrone man; he’s been up in Belfast personally, defending our people there.”
“But what about General Lynch?”
“We’re going to lock him and his crowd out of the GHQ.” Tom Barry turned up his coat collar and squinted at the rain. “I have to make a quick trip down to Cork, but I’ll be back in a couple of days. There’s a lot of work to be done if we’re not going to lose the Republic altogether.” Snapping Henry a quick salute, he sprinted into the night.
Dear Christ, another split. Is there no end to it? It’s as if some natural law is in force, with pressure causing each splinter to splinter further.
Next day Liam Lynch set up a GHQ of his own in the Clarence Hotel.
Although no journalists had been allowed to attend, the Freeman’s Journal published an account of the ill-fated convention. The editor, Seán Lester, accused Tom Barry and those he called “fire eaters” of advocating a parliament of gunmen.
Rory O’Connor issued an order to have the presses of the Journal smashed and the premises burned.
However, Cathal Brugha assured the editor of another newspaper, “So far as my influence goes, no journalist shall ever be molested.”
Henry was furious at the attack on the Journal. He marched up to the Four Courts to remonstrate with the Republicans inside, but was not allowed in.
I’ll have to wait till Tom Barry gets back. He’ll see me. Please God he will listen to me. We can’t go this route.
ON the twenty-second of June Ireland was electrified by news of the assassination of Sir Henry Wilson.
That night when Henry knocked on the door in Herbert Place the parlor maid told him, “I’m sorry, Mr. Mooney, but Mrs. Rutledge is not at home.”
“But she’s expecting me. We have a dinner engagement.”
The maid looked embarrassed. “I’ve been instructed to tell you Mrs. Rutledge is not at home,” she repeated.
Instructed? “Who told you to say that, Tilly?”
“Mr. Mansell, sir.”
“I see.” Henry did not see at all. “What about Madge? Or Ava?”
“Oh, they really are out, sir,” the girl said brightly. “They’ve gone to see the new play at the Abbey with Miss Mansell’s young man. But Mr. Mansell is waiting for you in the library. I have orders to take you to him as soon as you arrive.”
Edwin stood up when Henry entered the room. “Henry, we have a bit of a problem here,” he said, gesturing toward the day’s newspapers strewn across the reading table. “I hope you will understand my position.”
“What’s this about?”
“I assume you know Sir Henry Wilson’s been shot dead in London by members of the IRA?”
“I was at the Evening Mail office when the news came in,” Henry replied. “Wilson was shot outside his house in Belgravia; the police already have two men in custody. Their names will be in tomorrow’s editions. What’s that to do with me?”
“Do you approve of Wilson’s murder?”
“I won’t shed any tears for him. With the exception of General Macready he was the most hated man in Ireland. But I don’t approve of murder, his or anyone else’s.”
Edwin selected a newspaper from the pile. “Here’s a report of the IRA burning Mount Talbot at Athleague. We used to go to parties there, and the Talbot girls are great friends of my sisters’. If the rebels had gone only a mile or so farther up the road, they might have burned Beech Park too. What do you have to say to that, Henry?”
“Surely you know me well enough to know that I deplore such acts.”
“Yet are you not a Republican sympathizer?”
“Are you cross-examining me? I thought you were a solicitor, not a barrister. But to answer your question, I’m an Irish nationalist—I’ve never made any secret of that.”
“You’re a Republican,” Edwin said again. Around the eyepatch he still wore, his face suffused with blood.
“If you’re asking if I support the ideal of an Irish Republic, I do,” Henry said evenly. “A republic is a state in which supreme power is held by the people or their elected representatives rather than a monarch. No more just system has yet been devised.”
“You call it justice to send two thugs to shoot an old soldier dead in the street?”
“An old soldier? Come now, Edwin, you know what Wilson was—a hate-filled Ulster bigot who loathed Catholic Ireland. He was doing everything he could to keep the pot boiling in the north so the British government would launch a new invasion of this island.”
“So you do approve of killing him.”
“I can’t believe I’m hearing this. I don’t know where you got the idea that I—”
Edwin picked up yet another of the papers and held it for Henry to see. It was folded open to his article about making up one’s own mind. “Do you deny you wrote this?”
“Of course I don’t deny it. I said some things that needed to be said. But what possible inference can you draw from—”
“ ‘We manipulate the reader in ways he does not suspect,’ ” Edwin quoted. “Indeed you do. Since Ella’s known you she has changed, and not for the better. She used to accept the advice of her menfolk. That’s how it should be; the ladies do not have our experience of the world. But lately she has become quite headstrong, which I attribute entirely to your influence.”
“Perhaps she always could think for herself,” Henry said. “Did you ever consider that possibility?”
Edwin ignored the question. “I am afraid that any further association with you might compromise my sister’s safety. Since her husband’s death she has been my responsibility, and I have to do what’s best for her. No matter what it takes,” he added.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I never mistook you for a fortune hunter, Henry, but you must realize that Ella has money. Or rather, she is a beneficiary of the trust our late father established for us. As head of the family I control that trust, and if necessary I will cut her off her income to prevent her marrying the wrong man.”
Henry was rigid with anger. “I don’t want Ella’s money! We won’t need it. I can support her adequately.”
“But surely you would not wish to be the cause of her disinheritance?”
“Does she know we’re having this conversation?”
“I asked her to stay upstairs so you and I could discuss some serious matters in private. She may have suspected it had something to do with the marriage, but I gave no details. At first I thought she would refuse—that’s what I meant about her becoming headstrong—but at last she agreed. I trust you will be equally reasonable.”
“Reasonable? Do you think it’s reasonable to try to break off our engagement without even consulting her?”
“My sister isn’t thinking clearly right now. Taking those children to Clare is a perfect example. There’s military activity all across the country; anything might have happened.”
“Well, it didn’t. I arranged to have two members of the army in her railway carriage with orders to look out for her. They wore civilian clothes so she didn’t notice them, but she was protected the whole time she was away. They came back to Dublin when she did.”
“Which army, Henry?”
He hesitated. “The IRA.”
“The IRA,” Edwin repeated. “That says it all, doesn’t it? I think you had best go now.”
Henry squared his shoulders. “I have no intention of leaving this house tonight until I see Ella. I asked Republicans to look out for her because they happened to be personal friends of mine.”
“And I’m Ella’s brother. I cannot allow her any further involvement with—”
“All right then!” Henry burst out. “I admit it, I’m for the Republic heart and soul! But if I had to fight tomorrow, it would be on the side of the Provisional Government, because that’s the legally constituted—”
“You admit your republicanism without shame?”
“You’re a monarchist,” Henry countered. “Are you ashamed?”
Edwin’s visible eye blazed. “Of course not! Henry, I demand that you leave now.”
“Not without seeing Ella.”
“I could call the servants and have you thrown out.”
Henry doubled his fists at his sides. From deep within himself he summoned the unyielding strength, the simmering anger, the latent male aggression he had suppressed all his adult life. “You could try,” he said grimly.
Until that moment Edwin had thought of Henry Mooney as a temperate man. An amiable, easygoing man. Now he realized his mistake. Waistcoat and watch chain concealed a tiger’s heart.
“I’ll see Ella now,” Henry Mooney growled. “And if you try to stop me, I swear I’ll go through you for a shortcut.”
He strode from the library. Up the stairs, three at a time. Edwin, disconcerted, hurrying behind.
“Ella!” shouted Henry. His deep voice reverberated in the stairwell. “Ella Rutledge! Where are you?”
Chapter Thirty-nine
THAT same night Commandant-General Tom Barry of the IRA was captured by Free State troops. Disguised as a nurse, he had been attempting to rejoin the garrison in the Four Courts. He was taken to Mountjoy Jail as the first Republican prisoner of the Irish Civil War.
Henry made every effort to get in to see him, but even Richard Mulcahy would not issue him a pass. “This isn’t a good time to interview an IRA commandant, Henry.”
“But you’re an IRA commandant. Or were.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Sadly, I do.”
On his way down Kildare Street Hen
ry saw Liam Tobin coming toward him. His languorous pace was easily recognizable. “Liam! Are you going for a pint?”
Tobin stopped. “Might be. You buying?”
“You’ve been around the Big Fellow too long.”
Tobin grinned. “You pump me for information, you pay.”
It took several drinks before Tobin proved a good investment. Laconic as always, he replied to Henry’s questions with monosyllabic answers—until Henry asked about the assassination of Wilson. Then he said with obvious relish, “Didn’t we do good! Mick himself ordered that, you know. That’s one less British bastard to piss all over the Irish.”1
“D’you think the British government knows Mick was behind it?”
“Not at all—they’re convinced he’s their man.” Tobin gave a contemptuous snort. “As if the Big Fellow could be anybody’s man but his own.”
The results of the election were not announced until the twenty-fourth of June. Six hundred and twenty thousand votes had been cast; over 78 percent had been for pro-Treaty candidates.
LOUIS Kearney looked up as Henry entered the parlor. “What are you doing back? I thought you’d be out until all hours; I don’t even have your room swept yet.”
“I’m sorry, Louise. I seem to be at sixes and sevens, so I thought if I came home for a while…”
“If that tooth’s still bothering you, put oil of cloves on it.”
“It’s not the tooth.”
She folded her arms across her apron and gave Henry a knowing look. “Exactly what happened between you and Mrs. Rutledge? You’ve been like an antiChrist since you saw her last.”
Don’t tell anyone your personal business. “Nothing happened.”
He slumped into an armchair beside the hearth and stared at the cold ashes.
HENRY struggled to find some humor to lighten his personal gloom. In a piece for his American markets, he related, “The Irish Times newspaper in Dublin still has its own horse and delivery cart, which is more useful in the narrow laneways of the capital than a motorized lorry. A young apprentice recently was asked to take the horse to be shod. Misunderstanding directions, he took the unfortunate animal to the knackers and had it shot instead. Times deliveries were late that day.”2
1921 Page 40