The contest was going to be much closer than Charlie expected. Most members of the cabinet supported Colley, but the backbench deputies were terrified lest his low standing in the polls would lead to a repetition of the party’s poor showing during both the European elections and the recent Cork by-elections. Charlie, on the other hand, was riding high in the polls. He had been excluded from the government’s major economic decisions but, as those had recently turned sour, it was a distinct advantage to him to be seen as an outsider within the cabinet.
Charlie’s people cleverly set his bandwagon rolling with some announcements timed to give him a boost at the right psychological moments. First of all there was the announcement that Colley’s parliamentary secretary, Ray MacSharry, would be proposing Charlie. This was followed at the eleventh hour by an announcement that the Minister for Foreign Affairs, Michael O’Kennedy (who was regarded as a likely compromise candidate), would be voting for Charlie. Suddenly Colley’s supporters realised they were in trouble. Ministerial colleagues made frantic efforts to persuade deputies to support Colley by threatening to cut off funds already allocated for local projects. The campaign threatened to get dirty.
Garret FitzGerald related an extraordinary story in his memoirs about some backbench deputies who said they were being intimidated by Charlie’s supporters and wished to know if Fine Gael could ‘do anything to ensure a genuine secret ballot’. He learned, however, that booths were provided so that deputies could vote in private.
One Fianna Fáil deputy later told FitzGerald that ‘despite the polling booth arrangement some deputies had not felt that the privacy of the ballot had been ensured, because the voting papers when marked at either end of the room had to be deposited in a box near the centre of the room. Some deputies claimed they had been told that unless as they walked back to deposit their votes in the box they showed them to members of the Haughey camp they would be assumed to have voted for Colley and would subsequently be treated accordingly.’
No doubt FitzGerald was telling the truth; a member of Fianna Fáil had told him the story, but it sounded like so much sour grapes. Colley’s supporters controlled the party mechanism at that stage and if this could have happened without them being forewarned, then they were even more out of touch with the rest of the party than anyone could have imagined. Colley had really outmanoeuvred himself by rushing the election.
The whole thing turned into a contest between the government and its backbenchers. ‘They were voting to save their jobs and we were voting to save our seats’, was how one backbench member summed up the division. When the votes were counted Charlie had won by 44 votes to 38.
The ballot papers were immediately burned, and the resulting smoke set off the fire alarm in Leinster House. This was seen by his critics as a portent of things to come, but his supporters were absolutely jubilant.
‘Nixon’s comeback may have been the greatest since Lazarus,’ one of them said. ‘But there is only one resurrection that beats Charlie’s’.
FLAWED PEDIGREE
At the press conference following Charlie’s election as leader of Fianna Fáil, members of the cabinet were conspicuously absent, as he surrounded himself with backbenchers. Reporters sought to question him on issues on which his silence over the years was interpreted as a sign of ambivalence. In particular, they were interested in his attitude towards the Provisional IRA.
He had not spoken out before, he said, because he had no authority from the party to speak on the Northern Ireland question. Now he was unequivocal. ‘I condemn the Provisional IRA and all their activities,’ he declared.
Another reporter asked about the arms crisis, but this was a wound he had no intention of re-opening. ‘This is very much now a matter for history,’ he replied. ‘I am leaving it to the historians’.
Would he help the historians? John Bowman asked.
‘I will write my own.’
While Fianna Fáil had a comfortable majority in the Dáil, the divisions within the party were so great and the bitterness between Charlie and Colley so intense that the new leader’s election as Taoiseach could not be taken as a foregone conclusion. There were still some doubts about whether he could actually win the necessary confidence of the Daáil.
‘There were rumours of a split in Fianna Fáil,’ Garret FitzGerald noted in his memoirs. ‘Possibly because of the rumours of a split that might prevent Charles Haughey’s election by the Dáil’, the Fine Gael leader did not begin to write his speech until the eleventh hour. He found the task a very difficult one.
‘Charles Haughey and I had known each other since the autumn of 1943, when we had met while studying several first arts and commerce subjects together in UCD,’ FitzGerald noted. ‘Our personal relationship had always been friendly, although not close.’
FitzGerald’s ensuing speech following Charlie’s formal nomination for the post of Taoiseach on 11 December, should be seen partly as a play for the support of disillusioned Fianna Fáil deputies. ‘I must speak not only for the opposition but for many in Fianna Fáil who may not be free to say what they believe or to express their deep fears for the future of this country under the proposed leadership, people who are not free to reveal what they know and what led them to oppose this man with a commitment far beyond the normal,’ the Fine Gael leader declared. ‘He comes with a flawed pedigree. His motives can be judged ultimately only by God but we cannot ignore the fact that he differs from all his predecessors in that those motives have been and are widely impugned, most notably but by no means exclusively, by people within his own party, people close to him who have observed his actions for many years and who have made their human, interim judgment on him. They and others, both in and out of public life, have attributed to him an over-weening ambition which they do not see as a simple emanation of a desire to serve but rather as a wish to dominate, even to own the state.’
Nowhere in the speech did FitzGerald make any specific charges as to why Charlie was unsuitable for office. All he made were vague insinuations and then cloaked those with the pretence that he could not be more specific ‘for reasons that all in this House understand’. But, of course, all remarks made in the Dáil are privileged, so there was no justification whatever for his underhanded approach. If, as he implied, he had reasons for saying what he did, then he should have had the gumption to substantiate his charges.
‘It will be for the historians to judge whether placing my views bluntly on the record at that point was counter-productive, or whether it may have contributed to my opponent’s failure to secure an overall majority at any of the five subsequent general elections’, FitzGerald argued years later.
Whatever about the years ahead, his ‘flawed pedigree’ speech certainly set the tone for the opposition that day. Others like John Kelly and Richie Ryan of Fine Gael also made caustic comments, as did the long time maverick Noel Browne, who described Charlie as a dreadful cross between former President Richard Nixon and the late Portuguese dictator, Antonio Salazar. ‘He has used his position unscrupulously in order to get where he is as a politician,’ Browne told the Dáil. ‘He has done anything to get power; does anybody believe that he will not do anything to keep power?’
Even back in 1932 when the political climate was still poisoned by civil war bitterness, Eamon de Valera had not been subjected to such abuse. Throughout most of the invective, Charlie sat alone on the government benches, treating his tormentors with contempt by refusing to reply, and restraining others from replying on his behalf. His actions were a silent assertion that the charges were so ludicrous as not to merit a reply.
Since Charlie’s family, including his seventy-nine year old mother were in the public gallery, the attacks were seen as most ungracious and were resented by the general public. FitzGerald’s own genial image was tarnished, and there was a lot of sympathy for Charlie – even among people who had serious reservations about him. Some of them might have agreed with the sentiments expressed, but they thought the occasion most inappropriate
.
COLLEY’S PIQUE
Following his election as Taoiseach Charlie went to great lengths to bind up the wounds within Fianna Fáil by reappointing most of the outgoing cabinet, even though only one of them, Michael O’Kennedy had supported him openly. Ray MacSharry, the minister of state who had nominated Charlie, was also rewarded by being elevated to the cabinet.
Albert Reynolds was the only member of ‘the gang of five’ who had orchestrated Charlie’s campaign, to be given a cabinet post, but the others were all appointed ministers of state.
Four ministers were dropped – Jim Gibbons, Martin O’Donoghue and Bobby Molloy were the most notable. Although Colley was appointed Tánaiste and was given a virtual veto over the appointments of the Ministers for Defence and Justice, he was still far from placated.
On 19 December 1979 Colley told Bruce Arnold of the Irish Independent that he and his colleagues believed that Charlie was ‘dangerous, should have been blocked from the leadership, and should be got out as fast as possible.’ Arnold later contended that Haughey began subverting the country’s constitution from the moment he took over as Taoiseach, but Arnold’s own biography of Charlie would seem to indicate that it was Colley who was guilty of this behaviour. He had extracted unprecedented concessions from the Taoiseach for his support, but then, even though he was constitutionally pledged to the concept of collective cabinet responsibility, he essentially began conspiring against the government.
Earlier that day, the Tánaiste had told a cabinet meeting that Charlie had misrepresented him when he told the press conference after his election, that Colley had pledged loyalty and support. In view of the campaign that Haughey’s supporters had waged against Lynch, Colley indicated that he no longer felt bound to give loyalty to the Taoiseach.
‘Must you?’ Haughey asked.
‘Yes,’ Colley replied.
If Colley was telling Arnold the truth about this exchange in cabinet, it was a clear breach of cabinet confidentiality. ‘Since Haughey had been campaigning, or supporting campaigns on his own behalf, for the previous five months,’ Arnold argued, ‘it was Haughey, not Colley, who had changed the rule about party loyalty within Fianna Fáil.’ No evidence has ever been produced that Haughey was actively engaged in the campaign against Lynch.
At worst, he was guilty of canvassing for the leadership of the party among members of the parliamentary party who elected the leader, whereas Colley went outside the party and sought to enlist the help of the press. He went public next day disavowing what Haughey had said.
‘In my speech at the party meeting,’ Colley explained, ‘I referred to Mr Haughey’s ability, capacity and flair and I wished him well in the enormous tasks he was taking on. I did not, however, use the words “loyalty” or “support” which he attributed to me.’ Colley fully understood how, ‘in the excitement and euphoria’ of victory, Charlie had misunderstood him, but now the Tánaiste was setting the record straight. As far as he was concerned the traditional loyalty normally given to the leader of the party had been withheld from Lynch, and it was now legitimate to withhold ‘loyalty to, and support for the elected leader’.
He made these views clear to Charlie before the cabinet was formed, he said. Since then he told him that he intended to set the record straight publicly. As far as he was concerned the rule henceforth would be that ‘the Taoiseach is entitled to our conscientious and diligent support in all his efforts in the national interest’.
When Geraldine Kennedy of the Irish Times asked if he expected the Taoiseach to seek his resignation, Colley responded rather indifferently. ‘I couldn’t say what I would expect,’ he replied. ‘Obviously, if I were asked to resign, it would be a matter for the Taoiseach. It is not for me to say.’
These were most extraordinary speeches for any deputy leader to make barely a week into the life of a new government. Naturally they provoked an immediate political crisis. Next day Charlie called Colley into his office.
‘Before he agreed to join the government the Tánaiste expressed to me the views which he has now stated publicly,’ Charlie explained in a statement to the press. ‘Following our discussion, he has assured me of his full support and loyalty in his office as Tánaiste and as a member of the government.’ And that was the end of that.
But the perception was born that Charlie had led the campaign against Jack Lynch. This would be widely accepted by elements of the media, even though no evidence was ever produced to show that he played any part.
‘It is untrue to say that Charlie Haughey orchestrated an undermining campaign against Jack Lynch,’ Charlie McCreevy admitted in January 1992, shortly after Haughey had announced his impending retirement. ‘It is correct that it was pro-Haughey people who participated, but the man himself neither orchestrated nor encouraged it – of course, neither did he do anything to halt it.’
Tom McEllistrim, one of the gang of four who orchestrated the campaign to replace Lynch, was adamant that Charlie was not behind the whole thing. They informed him about what they were doing, but they were acting in their own political interest. McEllistrim’s assessment would seem to have been confirmed by subsequent events. Two of the gang – Albert Reynolds and Seán Doherty – led the moves to oust Charlie in 1992, and by then Jackie Fahey had already broken with Haughey.
‘George and his followers sincerely believed Haughey’s treachery in the demise of Jack Lynch, but in this they were wrong,’ McCreevy continued. ‘An unfortunate consequence of that period was that the pro-Lynch/Colley axis of the party believed the orchestration theory when their favourite did not succeed. This was the basis of many party troubles in the early 1980s.’
On the night of the election count in 1977 Haughey had promised his first interview as Taoiseach to Geraldine Kennedy. She told government press secretary Frank Dunlop of the promise and asked him to arrange the interview, but Charlie obviously regretted his rash promise. He decided to explain the situation to Geraldine personally.
Dunlop called her to arrange this meeting and forewarned her of what was going to happen so that she would not be too disappointed. Haughey explained that he could not fulfil his promise, because giving her an exclusive interview would offend other journalists. She thanked him for the courtesy of telling her to her face and added that she was not really surprised. It was what she had come to expect from what colleagues had been telling her.
‘What are they saying?’ Haughey asked.
‘That you’re a liar,’ she replied.
Haughey was taken aback. He was not about to confirm what his critics in the press thought of him, so he immediately reversed himself and again agreed to give her his first formal interview as Taoiseach. For all his combativeness over the years, it would become apparent in the following months and years that he was a classic bully. When confronted he frequently backed down, as he demonstrated with both Colley and Geraldine Kennedy.
The promised interview turned sour when Geraldine asked questions about the arms crisis. He actually threatened to terminate the proceedings, if she persisted with her line of questioning. She wrote about this in her report, but her editor excised that material. The seeds of future discord had been sown.
She had seen Haughey close up and was not impressed, while his distrust of journalists was probably strengthened by what, in his eyes, would have amounted to the hostility of a journalist he had facilitated. In the following weeks he repeatedly put off requests for interviews without actually refusing them. As a result the requests built up to the point where there were over 250 applications from journalists to interview him.
Frank Dunlop was summoned to Haughey’s office one Monday morning. ‘Were the fuck were you yesterday?’ Haughey asked.
‘Yesterday – Sunday – I was at home in the bosom of my family,’ Dunlop replied.
‘We’re making some progress – the fucker knows yesterday was Sunday’, Haughey remarked to his aide Pádraig Ó hAnnracháin.
‘With that my reserve broke,’ Dunlop noted. ‘I stoo
d up and approached his desk. ‘Don’t you ever speak to me like that again,’ I said, and made for the door.
Haughey shouted after me to come back, but I kept going. Ó hAnn racháin later admonised Dunlop for speaking like that to the Taoiseach.
‘Pádraig, you are missing the point,’ Dunlop replied. ‘He can’t speak to me like that!’
Haughey did not speak to him for the rest of the week, but the following Monday had called Dunlop to ask his opinion on some subject. It was his way of apologising.
To mark the tenth anniversary of the arms crisis in May 1980, Vincent Browne of Magill began a series of articles that re-opened the whole controversy. Based largely on the reminiscences of Peter Berry, the late secretary of the Department of Justice who had died in 1975, they provided an extraordinary insight into the controversial events. A number of people tried to block publication by threatening to sue the publisher, distributors and sellers of the magazine. Although publication was temporarily delayed, the controversy helped to generate public curiosity and the issues carrying the Berry story were in great demand. As a result Haughey’s role in the whole crisis became the focus of public attention and the Dáil held another debate on the arms crisis, some ten years after the traumatic events.
Although the Magill articles raised serious questions about Charlie’s conduct, the disclosures were probably even more damaging to some of his critics within Fianna Fáil, because Berry had already told the court virtually all he knew about Haughey’s involvement in the affair during the two arms trials. Thus, his most startling posthumous disclosures related to others.
Browne concluded that Haughey ‘could easily and justifiably defend what he did at the time’ but was so anxious to put the whole affair behind him that he glided over the facts. ‘While Mr Haughey certainly behaved improperly,’ Browne concluded, ‘he was and has been innocent of the more colourful charges that have been laid against him concerning the crisis. It can be argued with some force that he was more a victim of the arms crisis than anything else.’
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