1921

by Morgan Llywelyn

  But soon there was nothing lighthearted left to write about.

  THE British government assumed the assassination of Wilson had been carried out on orders from the hard-line Republicans in the Four Courts. General Macready was told to dig them out or bomb them out. When he delayed, Michael Collins, as head of the Provisional Government of Ireland, was ordered to remove them from the Four Courts immediately.

  Winston Churchill told the House of Commons that refusal to comply would bring the Treaty crashing down.

  The arrests of known Republicans accelerated. Women were not spared. Eventually some four hundred would be jailed, including Maud Gonne MacBride, Grace Gifford Plunkett, Terence MacSwiney’s sister Mary, James Connolly’s daughter Nora, and Dorothy Macardle, who had worked for the Republican Publicity Bureau.

  THE twenty-seventh of June was a dull, rainy day. Lowering clouds created an atmosphere so heavy that Henry left his windows wide open when he went to bed, so he could catch the least breath of moving air.

  Sometime during the night he dreamed of Ella.

  Ella in a carriage drawn by two white horses. The horses were running away and Ella was screaming, calling to him to save her. Him with his feet stuck in a bog, unable to move.

  Mam behind him saying, “I knew you’d let me down.”

  AT four a.m. the army of the Provisional Government attacked the Four Courts with heavy artillery. The roar echoed through the city, tumbling frightened Dubliners from their beds. It was followed immediately by rifle fire and the unmistakable chatter of machine guns.

  Henry met Louise on the stair landing. She had not even put on a dressing gown, but wore only a flannel nightdress with all the color washed out of it, and her nightcap askew. “Merciful hour!” she cried, crossing herself. “Is it the end of the world?”

  “I’ll go find out. You stay here, Louise, and keep the other lodgers here too if you can. After I’ve gone, bolt the door behind me.”

  He took his revolver with him.

  In the cold gray light of early morning the scene on the quays was a cruel reminder of 1916. Once again British guns were bombarding Dublin—only this time they were manned by Irishmen. The long frontage of the Four Courts was being targeted by two borrowed eighteen-pound field guns firing from Winetavern Street across the Liffey.

  Henry Mooney had not cried since Síle’s funeral. Paindrops burned his eyes now.

  Chapter Forty

  HENRY joined the growing crowd watching the bombardment of the Four Courts from what they believed was a safe distance. The field guns were being fired at five-minute intervals, but bullets from both sides were constantly spanging off the cobblestones. Lancia armored cars had been drawn up in front of the gates of the Four Courts to prevent the Republicans inside from using the armored Whippet they had captured from the Free State forces. On the south side of the Liffey, more Lancias were providing cover for the eighteen-pounders and their crews in Winetavern Street.

  Among the gasping, pointing spectators Henry saw a photographer who worked for the Times. The man was trying to adjust a large box camera atop a tripod. Every boom of the guns threatened the contraption’s delicate stability.

  Henry went over to him. “I never thought I’d see this,” he remarked, shaking his head.

  “Shouldn’t have come to it at all,” the photographer replied irritably. “Put your hand on that bleedin’ thing and hold it still, will you? The Irregulars were given an ultimatum at four this morning. They could have marched out with their hands up and their heads high and no blame on them. Instead they refused. Stubborn bog-trotters. What the shite do they think they’re doing?”

  “Who ordered the shelling?”

  “Emmet Dalton, I heard.”

  As the gunfire intensified, O’Connell Street and the bridge became clogged with spectators. Traffic was stopped in every direction. The unarmed Civic Guard fell back and the Dublin Guard Brigade, armed members of the Free State Army, began trying to clear the area. Henry obediently turned his back on the Four Courts and walked east along the quays, following the river toward the sea.

  Behind him the field guns roared.

  People streamed past him going the opposite way. In spite of the effort to keep them back, the crowds were moving in again. The roar and rumble of destruction mingled with shouts and cheers. Henry shook his head. The fatal attraction of…et cetera.

  Emmet Dalton, a militant Treatyite, might have given the actual orders for the shelling, but the instructions had to have come from Michael Collins. Henry could imagine what private agonies Collins was suffering. On behalf of the north he had been working behind the scenes with Lynch and the IRA executive. Now he was attacking those same Republicans. To keep the British from moving back in and taking things out of his hands, Henry thought.

  Ironically, thanks to the latest split, Liam Lynch was out of the line of fire.

  Henry crossed the Liffey by the bridge near the unrepaired Customs House. Barricades were being set up there by men in Republican uniform. He then worked his way back along the quays, skillfully avoiding Free State soldiers who were also erecting barricades. Dublin was his city now; he knew every sheltering doorway, every rat-infested laneway.

  Reporters and rats, he thought sardonically, we go where we like.

  The Clarence was one of many hotels whose staff knew Henry. In developing his contacts, he had bought them drinks and listened sympathetically to a catalogue of their family and financial woes. When he entered the lobby the desk clerk beckoned to him. “You’ll be wanting to see Commandant Lynch I expect, Mr. Mooney. He’s still upstairs.”

  “Will he see me?”

  “No chance whatever. Them other reporters over there—” the desk clerk indicated a score of Henry’s colleagues thronging the lobby—“they want to see ’im too. But the general gave strict orders to let no one come up.”

  Digging in his pocket, Henry produced a gold sovereign. “How’s that son of yours, the one with the bad chest?” he asked as the gold magically changed hands and disappeared.

  The clerk dropped his voice. “The service stairs from the kitchen is down that passage—turn to your right then right again. Second door on yer left. And I dint see ye go up.”

  Most of the IRA executive were crowded into a room on the second floor of the hotel. One or two nodded to Henry as he stood in the doorway. He caught sight of Liam Lynch in the far side of the room, deep in conversation. Lynch was a big man who, in his late twenties, looked older. A steep brow, combined with the rimless spectacles he wore, gave him a scholarly look. In one of his articles Henry had written: “Liam Lynch is a shrewd judge of men who at the same time wants to believe the best of everybody, which makes him popular with the troops in the field. His absolute faith in his men is legendary. Although he is adaptable in military situations as a good commander must be, when it comes to the cause of the Irish Republic Lynch is unmovable.”

  Now Liam Lynch glanced up, saw Henry, smiled fleetingly, but waved him away.

  Henry continued to stand in the doorway.

  At last Lynch came over to him. The commander’s voice was slightly husky, accented with his native Limerick as he said, “I suppose it would do no good to ask you to leave?”

  “None whatever—I’m getting pretty good at refusing that request. Can you tell me what’s going on?”

  Behind his glasses Lynch’s eyes glinted. “I’m off to Cork in a couple of hours to muster the Southern Division, and I’m leaving Oscar Traynor to direct operations here in Dublin.”

  “What operations?”

  “We’re going to defend the Republic in arms, Henry. To the bitter end. I was in the Four Courts last night only hours before the shelling began, and I’ve come back with a document the officers there signed. We’ve healed the split between ourselves and them. We’ll be fighting shoulder to shoulder against the Free Staters now.”

  Lynch gave Henry the text of a proclamation which would be handed out to the reporters in the lobby. “Fellow citizens of
the Irish Republic. The fateful hour has come. At the direction of the hereditary enemy our rightful cause is being treacherously assailed by recreant Irishmen. Gallant soldiers of the Irish Republic stand rigorously firm in its defense. The sacred spirits of the Illustrious Dead are with us in this great struggle. ‘Death Before Dishonor.’ We especially appeal to our former comrades of the Irish Republic to return to that allegiance and thus guard the Nation’s honor.” The document was signed on behalf of the Irish Republican Army by its commandant generals, including Liam Mellows, Rory O’Connor, Joseph McKelvey, Ernie O’Malley…and Liam Lynch.1

  Winston Churchill was bombarding Michael Collins with offers of additional help to crush the Republicans. He ordered General Macready to place howitzers at the disposal of the Free State troops, and cabled, “Aero planes manned by their own pilots will carry out any action necessary.”2

  Collins declined the offers.

  Oscar Traynor had established headquarters in the Hammam Hotel on the east side of O’Connell Street. Other officers took over adjacent buildings and barricaded the area to create a defensive block. A detachment of Fíanna boys, some still in short pants, had stationed themselves in North Great George’s Street, eager to defend the Republic.3

  Free State troops had hoped to keep the fighting contained to the Four Courts, but soon there was skirmishing throughout north Dublin. Snipers took up positions. Figures in uniform, bent double, ran from doorway to doorway. Motorcars and horse-drawn vehicles of every description were commandeered to block off streets.

  Henry worked his way back and forth across the neighborhood he knew so well. Ducking; crouching. Talking to anyone who would talk to him. Men on either side, many of whom he knew personally. Patting his pocket to make sure his pistol was still there. But whom would he shoot?

  The gunfire continued for almost eight hours. Shopkeepers boarded up their shops. A tangle of tram wires littered O’Connell Bridge, and the laneways north of the Liffey were obscured by smoke smelling of cordite. Henry could not eat, could not relax, wandered into the few public houses still open and out again without even having a drink.

  The IRA was installed in Moran’s Hotel at the corner of Gardiner and Talbot streets. As Henry passed by, he observed the upstairs windows bristling with guns.

  Rifle fire crackled dangerously close.

  Henry ducked into the lobby of the hotel. Most of the men he saw were men he knew. They were willing to talk to him, but, as one explained, “That cute whoor Collins has cut communications outside the city. The Staters have seized the rural phone exchanges so we can’t get any information about what the boys are doing down the country. All we know for sure is that the Southern Division is out there somewhere. If they can get this far, maybe we can trap the Staters in a pincers movement.”

  Ned Halloran’s out there somewhere too, Henry thought glumly. Angry and with scores to settle. Probably get himself killed for sure this time.

  During a lull in the gunfire he sprinted up Gardiner Street to number 16 to make certain his cousin was all right. He found her anxious and angry but safe enough. Gardiner Street was not in the immediate area of action, at least not so far.

  “What about Mrs. Rutledge?” Louise asked.

  “I’m on my way there next.”

  “Would you not telephone? You said they have one.”

  “The phones aren’t reliable right now.”

  Taking his bicycle from the shed, he followed a zigzag route across the city. Once he was south of the Liffey it was quieter. By the time he got to Ballsbridge it was hard to believe a war was going on. Life in the affluent suburb continued serenely undisturbed. So Ella’s safe enough for now, Henry thought with relief. But if I could just see her for a moment, to be sure…

  He had just reached Herbert Place when a black Delage came roaring around the corner and almost knocked him over. Henry leaped off the bicycle, shouting, “What the hell do you think you’re doing!”

  Surprisingly, the man stopped the car. When he stepped out of his vehicle, Congreve did not look apologetic. “I didn’t recognize you,” he said in a cold voice.

  “Would it have made any difference? You can’t go speeding around the city like that—you might kill somebody.”

  “Don’t talk to me about irresponsible behavior,” Congreve retorted. “A band of Fenians has taken over the Kildare Street Club. It’s absolutely shocking. These people call themselves Republicans but they’re nothing more than barbarians. I gathered up my things and left, as any gentleman would.”

  Henry glanced at the piled-up luggage in the back of the car. “Where will you stay now?”

  “Edwin Mansell will put me up, of course. He has no more patience than I do with this sort of carry-on.”

  The journalist set his jaw. “I don’t think that’s a very good idea.”

  “My dear fellow, you have no say in the matter. He tells me you’ve been forbidden the house.”

  “We’re not in the house now,” Henry said, measuring Congreve with his eyes. The man was no taller than he and looked considerably less fit. Drives everywhere in that damned motor. “And you’re not going to be.”

  “You arrogant puppy!” Congreve took a deep breath as if pumping himself up to fight. But Henry did not give him time.

  One hard fist to the jaw. Congreve’s eyes going blank, the man suddenly sitting down hard on the curb.

  Henry stood over him, waiting. Feeling suddenly, violently, confident.

  Congreve fingered his jaw. “I think you broke it,” he muttered.

  “I doubt it, but if I did there are plenty of doctors in town,” Henry nodded his head. “Back that way. And plenty of hotels and boardinghouses, too.”

  Congreve glared balefully up at him. “I’ll have you arrested.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so. The police will have other things to worry about for quite a while.”

  The major slowly got to his feet. He did not take his eyes off Henry, watching him as he would have watched a snake that might strike at any moment. With an exaggerated air of courtesy Henry opened the car door. “Sir,” he said.

  Congreve did not respond to the sarcasm. He edged past Henry into the safety of his car. Before he could slam the door, Henry closed it gently. “There’s plenty of room for you to turn your car,” he said. “I’ll direct you if you like. Or we can go another round if you’d prefer.”

  Congreve snarled something under his breath. With a great grinding of gears he made an awkward U-turn, then sped away.

  Henry watched the car disappear from view. Only then did he realize he was grinning. Guess I’m one of those barbarians with no sense of decency. Wait until Edwin hears about this.

  The grin faded. His fist was throbbing painfully. Feeling eyes upon him, he turned and looked up.

  Ella Rutledge stood framed in her bedroom window, looking down at him.

  Henry’s breath caught in his throat. He tried to read her expression, but she was too far away. Sweet Christ, I just confirmed all the terrible things her brother’s undoubtedly been saying about me!

  He stood gazing up at her. She made no gesture, just watched him. What must she think of me? His shoulders slumped. Retrieving his bicycle, he set off for Gardiner Street.

  IN mid-afternoon Eamon de Valera drove into the city from Greystones. He went direct to his office in Suffolk Street, from which he issued a statement of defiance. “At the bidding of the English, Irishmen are today shooting down, on the streets of our capital, brother Irishmen. In Rory O’Connor and his comrades lives the unbought indomitable soul of Ireland. Irish citizens! Give them support!”4

  ADDRESSING an emergency meeting of the Dáil, the new minister for justice, Kevin O’Higgins, said, “We have very good reasons to believe that our attack on the Four Courts anticipated by a couple of hours the creation of conditions which would have brought back the British power—horse, foot, artillery, and navy—in hostile relations to this country.”5

  HENRY felt as if he were being slowly squee
zed in a giant fist. Men he knew and liked were doing their best to kill other men he knew and liked. That night he wrote, “Both sides are grimly determined. The air of fraternal high spirits that the Volunteers exuded during the Rising has changed to one of the fratricidal ferocity.” He stared at that last sentence, hardly able to believe he had written it.

  Even several large whiskies failed to help him fall asleep.

  The gunfire resumed at dawn.

  Casualties were mounting. The women of Cumann na mBan were assisting the doctors and nurses who tended the wounded—on both sides.

  The field guns had been moved to Bridgefoot Street near the Brazen Head Inn, which claimed to be the oldest public house in Ireland. From that vantage point the gunners continued to blow chunks out of the facade of the Four Courts.

  Henry crossed the river and, avoiding military cordons, made his way to the Dáil office. He was relieved to find it open. Kathleen McKenna looked up from her typewriter as he entered. Her face was drawn, her eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep. “Good morning, Henry.”

  “Nothing good about it, as far as I can see. Where is everyone?”

  “The officers are all at their posts. Emmet Dalton is directing the shelling, and Paddy O’Daly—you know him, he was one of Mick’s Twelve Apostles—is in charge of the attack force.”

  “I mean the men who’re responsible for this fiasco in the first place.”

  “You can’t blame Arthur for this,” she said quickly. Protectively.

  “I wasn’t going to. Where is he?”

  “Up on the roof, I think. Watching. He’s taking it very hard; we’re all worried about him.”

  “Collins and de Valera, where are they?”