In Dublin’s City

by Rhys Bowen

  I learned that the area I was in was called the Liberties. It had once been a self-governing center for weaving and trade and had been prosperous in the days before taxes on Irish goods made exporting impossible. For the last hundred years it had been the city's worst slum. Iwalked past dank tenements and desolate warehouses until I spotted the Guinness Brewery chimneys over the tenements and made my way toward the river Liffy. At least I now had my bearings, but no proof that Liam actually lived in this area. He might have used this confusing network of alleyways as a means of losing me and then come out the other side, free to go to his lodgings, wherever they might be.

  I had to be content with telling myself that Liam knew where to find me if he wanted to make contact. If he didn’t, there wasn’t much more I could do but keep my eyes open as I went around the town. I came back to the hotel just in time for a change of clothes and a quick meal before I had to head out again, this time to my poetry reading, sponsored by the Gaelic League at Davy Byrne's on Duke Street. I asked directions to Duke Street from the hotel porter and was relieved to find it wasn’t far away as the weather had worsened again, the wind was bitter, and my legs were already rebelling after a day's walking. I had changed into the warmest clothing I had brought, and wrapped a shawl around my shoulders before stepping out into the night. I didn’t know at what number Davy Byrne lived, but I hoped that I’d arrive early enough on Duke Street to watch other people going into his house.

  Duke Street was just behind Trinity College, and the whole area presented a lively scene on Saturday evening. Droves of young men, some of them already intoxicated, some arm in arm with young women of questionable repute, swept up the middle of the street, singing, laughing, shouting as they went. Some of them tried to persuade me to join them. Instead I asked them if they knew where Davy Byrne lived and was met with howls of laughter.

  “That's Davy Byrne's over there,” one of them pointed. “See the sign?”

  Davy Byrne's was a public house, so it seemed. I hesitated outside in the darkness. In New York women were not allowed in most saloons and would only go into respectable drinking places accompanied by a man. Our pub at home had a ladies lounge around the side but decent ladies didn’t frequent it. I’d been a few times with local lads, but there was nothing I hated more than watching grown men get drunk so I usually stayed well away. A group of men passed me and went in. Were ladies even allowed at meetings of the Gaelic League, I wondered? Istood there in the shadows until a middle-aged couple entered, then I stepped up hastily and followed them inside.

  Inside was warm, with gas lamps casting a friendly glow on dark oak-paneled walls. There were simple oak benches around the walls, already full with an interesting assortment of young men, elderly professors, a couple of priests, shabby-looking individuals, and here and there a distinguished-looking matron. There were a couple of other young women, dressed rather in the bluestocking manner, one of them wearing glasses and both occupied with a book they were studying. I looked to see if there was any room beside them, but they were squashed into a corner, sharing a seat meant for one. So I stood awkwardly near the door until a young man called out, “Come over here to us, my dear. You can always sit on my lap.”

  “Nonsense. We can make room for the young lady over here,” one of the matrons said firmly. “You two. Move over, please.” Her look implied there was to be no hanky-panky in the establishment this evening. The men beside her moved to make room for me. I smiled gratefully and sat down. She was a large woman, with a mannish face, dressed head to toe in black, her hair scragged back into a severe-looking bun. But she had a serene, innocent look to her, and her face was remarkably devoid of wrinkles. In fact, she reminded me of the nuns who taught me in school, and I sat down cautiously beside her.

  “Thank you. I wasn’t even sure that women were allowed to attend,” I said.

  “What better way to resurrect our Irish culture than through the women, who will then teach it to the children,” she said. “Are you a newcomer to town?”

  I nodded. “I’m a visitor from New York,” I said. “I heard about this meeting and wanted to see for myself what the Gaelic League had accomplished.”

  “Quite a lot,” she said. “There are great stirrings all over Ireland. Our aim is to awaken interest in our past and our culture in the smallest villages of the land. We know that we’re a nation of poets and musicians. Let's be proud of our own poetry and music and language too. You don’t speak Irish, I take it?”

  “I’m afraid not. We were never taught, although there were some people near my home who did.” “And where was that?”

  “Up in—” I paused, conscious that people were listening, “In Gal-way,” I said, latching onto a big enough city.

  “Galway. How lovely,” she said. “I’m Mrs. Boone, by the way. And your name is?”

  “Mary Delaney,” I said.

  She nodded. “Welcome to the meeting, Mary. I hope it inspires you.”

  A barman came around with pints for those who had ordered them. I wondered if I was required to order something, and glanced at my female protector to see what she was doing. Before I could come to any conclusion the man next to me said, “and a half pint for the young lady here,” and a glass was shoved into my hand. I turned to thank him and realized that I had met him before.

  “It's Mr. Joyce, is it not?” I asked.

  He smiled. “It is indeed. And you are—don’t tell me—Miss De-laney.”

  “Quite right.”

  “I’m glad you’ve an interest in our native Irish poetry, Miss Delaney,” he said.

  “Oh, I have indeed,” I said. “One poet in particular I had hoped to meet here. Terrence Moynihan. He used to write fine poetry, and I heard he’d left for Dublin some time ago.”

  Mr. Joyce frowned. “Terrence Moynihan? Now that's not a name I’ve heard. Maybe Kevin here would know better than I—he's been hanging around the city, imbibing equal measures of liquor and culture for as long as he can remember. Isn’t that so, Kevin, my boy?”

  “What? What's that you’re saying, Joyce, old man?” One of the shabby fellows looked over in our direction, waving a half empty glass. It was hard to say how old he was—at least thirty but possibly a good bit older. He looked as if he was in need of a good meal, and his clothes were definitely in need of a brush and press.

  “The young lady here is asking about a Dublin poet, and I’ve nevercome across him. The name's Moynihan. Terrence Moynihan. Mean anything to you?”

  The shabby man got to his feet, a little unsteadily, and came over to us.

  “I remember Terry Moynihan,” he said. “He wrote some fine stuff.” “Is he still in Dublin?” I asked excitedly. “I’d dearly love to hear him read his poems.”

  “Wouldn’t we all,” Kevin said. “But alas, poor Terry is no more. He had a little mix up with the Royal Irish Constabulary, and he was thrown in jail and never came out again.”

  “How long ago was this?” I asked.

  He thought for a while. “Ten years, at least, I’d say.”

  “And what about his wife? Do you know what happened to her?”

  He shook his head. “Terrence had no wife that I knew of.”

  “Well, they probably wouldn’t have been legally married,” I said. “I heard that he ran away with another man's wife. Her name was Mary Ann. Mary Ann Kelly when she was married, but before that it was Mary Ann Burke.”

  Kevin shook his head again. “Never met her. If Terry had her in Dublin with him, then he kept her hidden away.” He was still frowning as he examined me. “But how would you know about Terrence Moyni-han? Surely you’d have been nothing more than a little girl when Ter-rence was alive—certainly too young to appreciate the kind of political poetry that he wrote.”

  “To tell the truth,” I said, as I weighed what truth I should be telling at this moment, “I was asked to look him up by a friend in New York who had been old enough to remember him in Dublin. You know what it's like when people hear that you’re
paying a visit to the old country— they all have someone they want you to look up for them.”

  “Is that a fact?” Kevin said. “I’ve never been out of Dublin myself.”

  “A stick-in-the-mud, that's what you are, Kevin my boy,” Mr. Joyce said. “Travel broadens the mind, my friend. I aim to travel all over the world when I get through with my studies. I’ll expect you to show me around New York, Miss Delaney.”

  “I’d be delighted to,” I said. “It's a grand city.”

  “No city can beat old Dublin,” Kevin said morosely. “Those Irishmen who desert their motherland are no true Irishmen. That's what I say. Rats leaving the sinking ship, every one of you.”

  He had just about reached that level of drunkenness that usually turns into fisticuffs with many Irishmen. Luckily I still had the matron beside me.

  “Go back to your seat. Can’t you see they’re ready to begin,” she said, in such a commanding voice that Kevin meekly obeyed her.

  The program started. There was a report on the local branch of the Gaelic League and the great strides being made in fostering our native art and culture. There were language classes being offered, Irish music sessions, people collecting folk tales and dances. For the first time since coming to Ireland I felt that charge of enthusiasm that was so often present in New York. These people really believed they were about to reawaken the spirit of the country.

  If they planned to do so, it surely wasn’t with the poems of Desmond O’Connor. I think the best word to describe them is “long-winded.” In the first poem—”Sea voyage,” he took two pages just to describe the color of the sea, and then two more to describe the sound the sea made against the hull of the boat. Then he turned to the Gaelic and read the next pages in that language. I had to admit that the musical play at the Gaiety sounded like a much better way to spend an evening. But nobody else left so I was compelled to stick it out to the bitter end. I also wanted to make sure that nobody else present had any more information on Mary Ann and Terrence.

  At last the poet finished to polite applause and we stood up stiffly. Some of the men made straight for the bar and another round of drinks. Demands for Jamesons echoed through the room as the menfolk moved on to stronger drink. Mr. Joyce had joined the crush at the bar. The matron was brushing herself down as if she might have picked up something unwanted on her clothing during the evening.

  “A fine program, wasn’t it?” she said to me. “How long are you staying? You should join our language classes.”

  “Not very long, I’m afraid,” I said, “Although I’d dearly love to learn.”

  “My, but it's a difficult tongue.” She shook her head. “Quite a challenge at my age. But I shall conquer it eventually.”

  With that she nodded to me. “Do you have someone to escort you home? Dublin is full of drunken rowdiness on a Saturday night.”

  “My hotel is only a stone's throw away, thank you,” I said.

  “I could arrange for someone to escort you without a problem,” she insisted.

  “Thank you, but I’m sure I’ll be fine. I’ll be back at my hotel in five minutes.”

  “Stay away from Grafton Street. It's full of drunken louts,” she warned, putting on her bonnet.

  “Are you coming, Mrs. Boone?” An elderly priest stood waiting for her at the doorway.

  “Coming, Father,” She glanced back at me with a concerned look as she went to join him.

  I stayed around trying to find out from Kevin where Terrence Moynihan might have lived and who else might have known about him, but Kevin had sunk into the morose stage and kept muttering about the rats deserting their mother and going abroad. The men around the bar were becoming louder by the second, and it became clear that the respectable folk were going and I should probably join them.

  I wrapped my shawl around my shoulders and left the warmth and brightness of Davy Byrne's. The matron had been right about Grafton Street. I could hear drunken revelry going on from where I stood, so I decided to turn the other way on Duke Street and make my way back to St. Stephen's Green by back roads. Luckily the green was such a large landmark that it wouldn’t be hard to find it again, whichever route I took.

  I reached the end of Duke Street and turned right, onto a quiet side road. After the noise and bustle, this street was poorly lit and deserted. One solitary lamp shone a circle of light onto the wet cobbles. They were uneven and slippery and I had to walk with care, so I was concentrating on not twisting my ankle rather than what was going on around me. I sensed, rather than heard, someone following me.

  As I looked around something was thrown over my head—somekind of heavy cloth. I tried to cry out but a hand clamped firmly over my face, making it almost impossible to breathe. I tried to squirm but the large blanket, or whatever it was, hampered my movements. I was picked up, half dragged, and suddenly dumped onto a hard surface. I heard a door slam. Before I could try to move, I was held down. It felt as if someone heavy was kneeling on my back. Then I was jerked around and dimly heard the clatter of hooves. I was being taken away in some kind of cart or carriage.

  Twenty-two

  Once the vehicle was in motion, the pressure on my back eased a little, which was good as I felt as if I had been having the life crushed out of me. But the thick wool cloth over my face still made it hard to breathe. Moreover it smelled disgusting, like some kind of animal blanket and when I half coughed, half choked, I got a mouthful of hair. I tried to move my hands so that I could free some space around my nose and mouth, but my hands were still pinned to my sides and I was still being held firmly down. I tried to wriggle, to squirm, to cry out, but the moment I did, the pressure on me increased again so I lay still.

  I tried to think who might have kidnapped me and for what reason. This must surely be more than a simple robbery, for a blow to the back of my head would have been enough to knock me out and steal my purse. The words “white slave trade” did come into my mind, but this was Dublin, a peaceful backwater, not London or New York. I was becoming light-headed from lack of air. I could hear singing in my ears and sparks dancing in front of my eyes. The singing turned to roaring, and I was close to losing consciousness when I was jolted violently, grabbed again, and carried like a sack of potatoes. From the feel of it, I was being taken up steps. My biggest fear was that I was being carried onto a boat that would then sail off to Shanghai or wherever unfortunate girls were taken. When I look back on this it was a ridiculous fear,as being murdered right there and then in Dublin was a more likely fate—and I’ve never believed in fates worse than death, myself.

  I could hear men's voices but the cloth over my head was too thick to make out exactly what they were saying, until I heard one voice say clearly, “Right. Let's have a look at her then.”

  I was set on my own two feet, and the blanket was taken from my head. I stood for a moment, blinking in the strong electric light and taking big gasping breaths before I had a chance to notice my surroundings. When I was finally able to breathe properly. I stared around me in amazement: I wasn’t in the sort of seedy den, damp basement, or even ship's cabin that I had expected. I was in an elegant sitting room with Chippendale gilt furniture, a grand piano in one corner, Persian rugs on the polished wood floor, good art on the walls, and heavy red velvet curtains drawn over the windows.

  A man was sitting on one of the Chippendale chairs. I had met plenty of men in my life I would call attractive, but this one was different from all the others. Daniel was definitely handsome,- Ryan could almost be described as beautiful. This man was undoubtedly their equal in beauty—with a strong jaw, straight nose, dark hair worn rather long, and alarmingly blue eyes, but it wasn’t his rugged good looks that instantly held my attention, it was something in the power of his personality. You could tell instantly that this was the sort of man whom others followed willingly, who was quite confident in himself and his leadership, who knew what he wanted and got it. Don’t ask me how I could tell all this so quickly. I just knew as he fixed me with that steady
gaze.

  “All right, young woman,” he said, in a voice that bore the trace of an Irish accent but was deep and cultured, “out with it.”

  My shock and fear had now subsided, and my relief at finding myself in a civilized-looking room allowed my normally feisty nature to resurface. I wasn’t going to let this man see how afraid I was. I took a step toward him. “Look here. I have absolutely no idea who you are, or why you had the nerve to send your men to kidnap me. They’ve obviously made a mistake and brought in the wrong person. I demand that you release me instantly, or it will be the worse for you.”

  At this I saw those eyes light up and he actually laughed. “The worse for me? Did you hear that, boys? I like your spirit, whoever youare. Now supposing you start off by telling us who you really are, and who you are working for.”

  “Supposing you tell me why you had me brought here in such an undignified fashion,” I said. “If you had merely wanted to talk to me, a civilized invitation would have worked just as well.”

  “Ah, but I couldn’t risk that, my dear,” he said. “When the enemy doesn’t play by the rules, we can’t either. And I may look like a civilized man, indeed I am, but lives are at stake here and I can’t afford to take risks. You’re going to tell us everything you know tonight, one way or the other.”

  I continued to stare at him as if he was speaking a foreign language. “I’m afraid I still have no idea what you are talking about. I can’t think that I know anything that might be of interest to you or anyone else. You’ve obviously mixed me up with someone else.”