1921

by Morgan Llywelyn

  Once Henry had found the idea exciting. He was not so sure now. The task was for the young, and he did not feel young.

  Forty. This year I’ll be forty. How in hell did that happen?

  He consoled himself that the baby would bring an infusion of youth, a return of the energy and optimism that seemed to have slipped away from him. That’s what babies did. Gave a man a reason for going on.

  You have to live up to a baby.

  Henry began leaving his pistol at home, hidden away at the bottom of a drawer. One less weight to carry.

  Frank Aiken, who had replaced Liam Lynch as IRA chief of staff, issued an order suspending offensive action from noon on April thirtieth. This did not stop the government from continuing to arrest Republicans, however.

  Eamon de Valera drafted a proposal for peace containing terms that he felt would be fair to both sides. The detailed document covered a number of areas, and attempted to circumvent the oath of allegiance to the king that had been written into the Treaty.

  The proposal was flatly rejected by the government.

  IN the pages of the Freeman’s Journal Henry Mooney reported, “Christopher Quinn and William Shaughnessy, of the Irish Republican Army, were executed in Ennis on the second of May. They were charged with the possession of firearms and the murder of government soldiers. Rounding-up operations proceed throughout the country. Upwards of sixty Irregulars have been captured by government troops this week.”

  Ennis was dangerous for the IRA now. Henry sent an urgent letter to Ursula, asking for news of Ned.

  She replied, “We have heard nothing from Papa since he left to join Liam Lynch. I live in fear of seeing his name listed as captured—or dead. Uncle Henry, if you learn anything please let us know!”

  ON the nineteenth of May Eamon de Valera, from his latest hiding place, gave an interview to a representative from the Associated Press in America. He accused the Free State government of keeping the war going deliberately. “They need to secure their mandate by another election, and they want to hold that election under war conditions,” he claimed, “so the Republicans may be denied that freedom of speech and public meeting which the Free State pretends to uphold.”

  It was a bitter interview that many saw as the angry outburst of a beaten man.

  “Don’t you believe it,” Henry advised Ella over the breakfast table. “Observe that Dev’s thinking about elections again. He always has a fallback position.”

  FIVE days later Eamon de Valera issued a proclamation: “Soldiers of the Republic, Legion of the Rearguard: The Republic can no longer be defended successfully by your arms. Further sacrifice of life would now be vain, and continuance of the struggle in arms unwise in the national interest and prejudicial to the future of our cause. Military victory must be allowed to rest for the moment with those who have destroyed the Republic. Other means must be sought to safeguard the nation’s right.”1

  Simultaneously, Frank Aiken as chief of staff issued an order to the IRA. An official cease-fire was to take place immediately. They were not to surrender their arms to the enemy, however, but to dump them—a move intended to keep the government from dealing too harshly with the Republicans in its custody, for fear of causing a renewal of hostilities.

  HENRY wrote, “The Civil War is over. William Shaughnessy of Ennis was the last man to be executed in the struggle for an Irish republic. One might say the first was Pádraic Pearse. And who won the war? Not the Irish people. They had voted for the Republic. Michael Collins and the leaders of today’s government accepted the Treaty only as a stepping-stone to that goal. But now the Treaty is the law, and the Republic is, once more, a distant dream.”

  THE government began counting the cost of the war. During his time as minister for justice, Kevin O’Higgins had presided over seventy-seven official state executions. He also calculated that the battle to enforce the Treaty had cost seven million pounds in the first year and ten million in the second: money the country could ill afford. Article 5 of the Treaty concerned crucial financial relations between Britain and the Irish Free State, and its implementation demanded a solid mandate from the people.

  The nation would have little time to lick its wounds. De Valera was right. A new general election would be held as soon as one could be arranged. The date was set for August twenty-seventh.

  Mounting an election campaign was difficult for Sinn Féin. The Republicans had been deprived of their most efficient organizers by death or imprisonment. Additionally, the government was making every effort to convince people that a vote for Sinn Féin was a vote to resume the war.

  Henry received a hand-carried note from Eamon de Valera: “The bearer of this note can bring you to me. Be certain you are not followed. I have a statement I should like to give to the press.”

  He found de Valera in a cramped flat over a bicycle shop south of Dublin. Apparently it was his safe house for the day; it bore no sign of permanent occupation. De Valera was accompanied by two silent men in civilian clothing who sat at the back of the room, taking no part in the conversation. Saying nothing. Watching Henry.

  “Your friends look as if they don’t trust me,” Henry commented.

  “I trust you,” de Valera replied. “That is all that is required.” He was not interested in small talk, making it plain that the only purpose of the meeting was to put his statement in Henry’s hands.

  “It is not the intention of the Republican Government or Army Executive to renew the war in the autumn or after the election,” the journalist read. “The war, so far as we are concerned, is finished. Our present purpose is to work through the Sinn Féin organization.”2

  Henry looked up. “How does this affect you personally, sir?”

  “I intend to run as the delegate of my party from Clare.”

  “Does that mean you now accept the legality of the government?”

  De Valera’s eyes flashed. “It means I continue to deny the right of any foreign authority in Ireland, and refuse to admit that our country may be carved up by any such authority!”

  Henry delivered the statement to his press colleagues for publication. Then he wrote his own commentary. “Once Eamon de Valera fixes upon a premise, he will defend it with all the obstinacy of a mathematician defending an irrefutable mathematical point.”

  Desmond FitzGerald, now minister for external affairs in the Free State government, was quoted as saying, “As long as we are in power de Valera and every other enemy of the country will have to be on the run.”3

  The depleted Sinn Féin Party unanimously endorsed the Long Fellow as its candidate in Clare. Accepting the nomination, he declared, “Our opponents make a mistake if they imagine we are going to remain on the run. If the people of Clare select me as their candidate again I will be with them and nothing but a bullet will stop me.”

  Ireland was, after all, a small country. Only its moments of highest drama captured international attention. De Valera’s words were calculated to contain high drama.

  Henry Mooney received a sheaf of cablegrams asking him to cover the Clare election for newspapers abroad.

  “I’m not sure if I should, Cap’n,” he told his wife. “The baby’s due at the end of September, and—”

  “Nonsense! I shall have stopped going out soon, but that doesn’t mean you must. By all means go to Clare. It will give you a chance to see Ursula, and perhaps Ned.”

  “Not likely, he’s more ‘on the run’ than Dev. None of his family has heard from him.”

  “But you do think he’s still alive.”

  Henry stared off into space. “I do think he’s still alive. I don’t know why I think so, but I do.”

  IN the meantime there was plenty of other news to cover. In June, James Larkin and his brother Peter announced the formation of the Workers’ Union of Ireland. July saw a published estimate of the number of Republican prisoners being held by the Free State: 11,480. That same month, the Appellate Court ordered the release of Nora Connolly O’Brien, James Connolly’s da
ughter, on the grounds that the state of war was over. The Free State government responded by rushing through an Emergency Powers Act allowing them to keep detainees imprisoned indefinitely. It went into effect retroactively.

  Henry was furious. “It’s imperial arrogance all over again, only worse because it’s us!”

  For publication he was more restrained. “The Free State defends itself in ways reminiscent of the British authority it has replaced. One hopes that when the government feels more secure, it will remember its obligation to justice.”

  His remarks were published abroad but not in Ireland. Irish newspapers were trying to adjust to changed circumstances. The pro-imperialist Irish Times had become the voice of a defeated and somewhat bewildered minority,4 and even the formerly Republican press was cautious, mindful that the tide had turned. Much of Henry’s income depended upon foreign markets now.

  On the eighth of August the unarmed Civic Guard was reconstituted under the name Garda Síochána—Guard of the Peace.

  “What peace?” Henry wondered aloud. “A civil war never really ends because the combatants remain geographically tied. So the war’s fought over and over again in every town and village and pub for as long as they live—or as long as their children carry grudges.”

  He lay in bed beside Ella, listening to her breathing as she slept. Imagining he could hear the beating of two hearts. One calm and steady. The other as excited as a diver plunging into life.

  Chapter Forty-seven

  EAMON de Valera would be running against Eoin MacNeill in Clare. Seán Lester, director of publicity for the government, undertook a campaign to blacken de Valera personally in the minds of the electorate. This would help prepare the public for Dev’s being arrested when he surfaced.

  To the government’s discomfiture, De Valera cooperated by calling for a public rally in Ennis. On the fifteenth of August—the Feast of the Assumption. The day when, according to Catholic doctrine, the Virgin Mary was assumed into heaven body and soul.

  “They can’t refuse to arrest him,” Henry remarked to Matt Nugent, “not after that statement Des made. And when they do, it will make headlines all over the world. The Long Fellow’s more of a genius at publicity than Des FitzGerald ever was.”

  At first Henry planned to go down on the twelfth and spend a few days with the Hallorans, but he kept putting it off. He thought Ella had never been more beautiful. He could not make himself leave her, even for a few days.

  HE awoke before dawn on the morning of the fifteenth. Gave Tilly Burgess detailed instructions she did not need. Changed his shirt twice. Insisted on one more cup of tea. “If you miss the earliest train,” Ella warned him, “you’ll miss the rally.”

  “I’m on my way, Cap’n, don’t worry.”

  A shadow darkened her eyes. “I always worry when you go out that door. You said it yourself—the war isn’t really ended.”

  “It is of course—that was just me trying out the words of an article. I do it all the time. I’ll be grand, and back before you know it. You just take care of yourself and our little girl.”

  Ella’s dimples came out like sun after a shower. “How can you be certain it’s a girl?”

  “I talk to her at night after you’re asleep,” Henry replied solemnly.

  Before he left, he went back into their bedroorn and took the pistol from its hiding place at the bottom of a drawer. He thrust it into his pocket without letting Ella see.

  PASSENGERS on the westbound train were discussing whether or not de Valera actually would appear at the rally. Most of them were bound for Ennis. Excitement was at fever pitch and rumors flew like bullets. A man who proclaimed to be knowledgeable insisted, “Everyone knows the Long Fellow’s going to be assassinated. It’s only a matter of time.”

  Henry hid behind a copy of the Times, reading about the new wireless studios recently opened by the British Broadcasting Company in London.

  When he reached Ennis he found the town already thronged with spectators who had come from all over the country to witness the anticipated drama. Ursula met him at the station with the pony and trap. Her words tumbled over one another in excitement. “Mr. de Valera’s coming here in disguise! He let it be known that he would sail around the south coast, but actually an IRA escort brought him overland. They’ve promised to be here at two; his secretary’s already here. Come on, Uncle Henry! There isn’t much time.” She lifted the whip and gave the reins an expert twitch. “Gee up, Tad!”

  A speakers’ platform had been erected in O’Connell Square, where a crowd of dignitaries had gathered in the shadow of the monument to the Liberator. The Irish tricolor fluttered from every flagpole and open window. A local band was playing marches and rebel songs in a vain effort to be heard above the noise of the excited crowd.

  Thousands of bodies sweating in the summer heat, acrid, metallic.

  HENRY pulled out his watch. He was just saying, “It’s two o’clock now, Little Busi—” when a great cry arose from the far side of the square.

  A motorcar nosed its way through the crowd and pulled up near the speakers’ platform. A tall man in a tweed cap, black overcoat, and plain dark suit emerged, flanked by two Christian Brothers. De Valera had entered town by way of the Kilrush road, somehow avoiding recognition by a military patrol.1

  As he mounted the steps to the platform he took off the cap and donned a more formal black hat. People wept with joy at the sight of their Chief. A woman rushed forward, saying, “Shake hands, my darling that I suffered so much for!” With a smile, de Valera took her two hands in his own. Then he sat down on one of the chairs provided.

  Henry and Ursula had worked their way through the crowd until they were standing close to the platform. De Valera glanced down, saw the journalist, and gave a slight nod of recognition. Henry felt the girl beside him swell with pride.

  Tedious introductions and effusive speeches followed. Each local dignitary seized his moment in the sun and relinquished it with reluctance. De Valera waited with his hands on his bony knees. His expression was aloof, curiously withdrawn. When at last his turn came, he was introduced as the president of the Irish Republic to thunderous applause.

  De Valera began addressing his audience in Irish, then after a few words changed to English. Waves of emotion shuddered through the throng, ranging from near-religious fervor to barely suppressed antic hilarity.

  Suddenly there was a shout from the edge of the Square. “The army’s coming!”

  The vast audience turned as one and gasped. Free State soldiers accompanied by an armored Whippet and carrying rifles with fixed bayonets approached the platform, firing into the air to drive the crowd back. Their weapons were only loaded with bird shot, but people panicked as several were struck by pellets.

  In the confusion on the crowded platform de Valera was knocked down. He scrambled to his feet just as the soldiers vaulted onto the stage beside him. His trousers had been torn by a nail and there was blood on his leg. Men were shouting, cursing. A woman screamed. The crowd was like a wild beast, frightened and furious, explosive as gunpowder.

  “We have to get you out of here,” Henry said urgently to Ursula.

  “I belong here, Uncle Henry—I’m a warrior for the Republic.”

  “You’re a young girl and this is about to get nasty.” Ignoring her struggles, he forcibly propelled her away from the platform. He glimpsed Sarsfield and Josephine Maguire a few yards away and shoved Ursula toward them. “Thank God you’re here! Would you ever take my niece someplace safe?”

  “She’ll go home with my wife right now,” Sarsfield assured him. “But what about you?”

  “Story to cover,” Henry said curtly, plunging back toward the speakers’ platform.

  Soldiers were leading de Valera down the steps. He did not seem to be making any effort to resist, but other men were shouting angry threats at his captors. Henry struggled to get closer. As the crowd surged backward and forward, the weakest and most vulnerable were in danger of being trampled. “Have
consideration for the people!” Henry heard de Valera cry to the soldiers.

  The frantic crowd became an almost impenetrable barrier. Henry turned sideways and used his shoulder as a battering ram. He burst forward into a cleared space only to find several soldiers busily arresting spectators. Before they could turn to him, he edged back into the crowd and headed in the opposite direction. Someone elbowed him painfully in the ribs. When he paused for a moment to catch his breath, he noticed a narrow laneway between two buildings and stumbled down it. Surprisingly, it was empty.

  Henry guessed the soldiers would march their captive to Home Barracks by way of Jail Street and Station Road. Through the back laneways of Ennis he hurried to intercept them. Behind him was the roar of the crowd like a great baffled beast.

  He came out on Station Road in time to see Eamon de Valera, coatless and hatless, walking briskly, forward at the center of a hollow square. He towered above the soldiers. There was no chance of speaking to him, of course, but perhaps once they reached the barracks…

  In the shadow of a building crouched a man with a rifle. The oily gleam of the barrel caught Henry’s attention as it swung around to take aim on the officer in charge.

  Something snapped in the journalist. Madman—mad dog! You should shoot down mad dogs to prevent their doing more harm.

  Before the sniper could fire, Henry was behind him. Pressing his pistol against the man’s neck, he growled, “You may kill one more Stater, but it won’t make any difference to de Valera, they’ll still have him. It will make a difference to the rest of us, though, because the whole thing will start up again. I don’t want my baby growing up in that kind of Ireland. Put your rifle down—slow now, and careful—or I’ll shoot you myself. I’m sick of the lot of you.”

  In one lightning motion the sniper pivoted and straightened up, knocking Henry’s pistol hand aside.