The Rebels of Ireland by Edward Rutherfurd
“They say it’s catching on everywhere,” Willy said. “But not in Dublin. Not yet, anyway. I think Joyce is too early with it myself.”
“No doubt,” said Father MacGowan. “Well, I’ve a lady to see in the Rotunda Hospital, so I must be going along.”
“He thinks me cruel,” said Willy, after the priest had gone.
“You are not always kind,” his cousin Rita replied.
Willy shrugged.
“Besides,” said Rita, “you did not answer the question I asked you before Father MacGowan came along. I don’t believe,” she added, “that you care.”
Willy considered. He didn’t care, in fact. But he would not say that to Rita. She was the one member of her family with whom he had always got on rather well. And he could see her point.
Why was it, she had asked, that working at Jacobs Biscuit factory, the older men could earn over a pound a week, while she earned less than a third of that? They have families to support, he had answered. It had always been so. Nobody had ever complained before. “We are complaining now,” she had said. Some of the young men—who did better than the women, of course, but still got far less than their seniors for the same work—had been complaining, too. “There’s a union now, at least,” Rita had pointed out.
An Irish trade union had been set up recently by James Larkin. The membership was growing rapidly. But whether they would do much for women remained to be seen. “They say that the union favours equality for women. But I should guess,” Willy told her truthfully, “that most of the union men won’t be anxious to see women paid the same, any more than the employers would be. You’d need a women’s union for that.”
“There isn’t one.”
“I know.” He considered. “Are you just complaining, or do you want to do something about these things yourself?”
“I might.”
“It’s dangerous.” Employers usually dismissed troublemakers. He waited for her to respond, but as she didn’t, he went on. “You know, there are women on the executive of Sinn Fein.”
It had been Arthur Griffith, after starting The United Irishman newspaper, who had started the Sinn Fein movement. “Ourselves Alone” the name meant, and his idea was to boycott English goods wherever it was possible to produce the same in Ireland. “We need economic self-sufficiency,” his supporters declared, “to show Ireland how to stand up for herself as a free and independent nation.” Since then, Sinn Fein had grown into an amalgam of groups dedicated to a general, but nonviolent resistance to England’s rule.
“You’re in Sinn Fein, aren’t you?”
He nodded.
“What made you join?”
“Many reasons. I suppose it was MacGowan the bookseller—he’s Father MacGowan’s brother, you know—who encouraged me in that direction. It was natural, really. I wanted the English out of Ireland.”
“Well, I might consider it.” She nodded. “Do they also want votes for women?”
“You’re turning into a suffragist as well? I didn’t know you were such a radical.”
“I never was. But when I started thinking about the wages, then I wondered why women shouldn’t vote, as well. The movement is well-developed in England.”
“Leave it alone, Rita. For the present.”
“Why?”
“Two reasons. Firstly, it’s better to do one thing at a time. Secondly, we don’t want votes for women in Ireland yet.”
“Why not?”
“Because we don’t want them coming from the British. That’s something that should come from Ireland.”
She considered this.
“I’m not sure you really care about for votes for women, Willy,” she said after a while.
“So you say.”
“But I’ll think about Sinn Fein, all the same. Thank you for taking me to the movies.”
“Did you enjoy it?”
“Not much. But it was interesting.”
“Well, at least you’ve seen them while they’re here. I don’t think Joyce can keep the Volta going much longer. I’ll walk you home.”
“Will you come in when we get there?”
“No.”
It was getting late when Father Brendan MacGowan set out from the Rotunda Hospital. His visit had been a success. But as he considered what course to set, he frowned. His best way would be along Parnell Street. It was a busy street. It ran across this part of the city, cutting at an angle, from north-east to south-west across the top of Sackville Street where it met the Rotunda. It was, for Father MacGowan, rather a convenient street. Yet for the last two years, Parnell Street had no longer found favour with the priest, and he had tended to avoid it. He had done so ever since Tom Clarke had opened a tobacconist’s shop there.
Father MacGowan didn’t like Tom Clarke.
His brother the bookseller had known Clarke, been quite friendly with him, even, years ago in America. That was before Tom Clarke went over to plant bombs in England and got himself thrown in jail. He’d come back to Ireland now.
The long years in an English jail had transformed him physically. Gaunt, with thinning hair, he looked twenty years older than he was. Deceptive. It made him all the more dangerous. Behind his metal-rimmed spectacles there was a cold passion and intensity that the priest did not like at all. The bookseller didn’t care for Clarke, either. Their friendship had ended. And his tobacconist’s shop had become a meeting place for the Fenians. The IRB: the Irish Republican Brotherhood. God knows what those fellows were plotting. You never knew because they were so secretive you didn’t even know who they were. You could probably identify quite a few of them if you watched to see who was hanging around with Tom Clarke in his shop. But Father MacGowan didn’t care to know; and he preferred not to pass by the tobacconist’s at all. He normally set a different course.
But this evening the wind had veered, and his quickest journey would take him past that dangerous and infernal establishment. And so, like a sailor strapped to the mast to protect himself from the sirens, he prepared to slip past as quick as he could. He drew close, sailed by, and glanced in, just for an instant. The store was small but brightly lit. In the window, also brightly illuminated, was a cardboard figure of a Round Tower, advertising Banba Irish Tobacco. Through the glass of the door, he could see several figures standing in the narrow space in front of the counter, behind which Clarke presided. And as he looked, Father MacGowan uttered a groan.
One of the men standing there was a figure he had seen only a couple of hours before. It was Willy O’Byrne.
1916
It was only when young Ian Law had confronted him in his office on a January day in 1912, that Sheridan Smith began to realise that he, and many others, had made one, horrible mistake.
When the young man had turned up at the offices, the man at the door had wanted to throw him out.
“You can’t just come in here and speak to Mr. Smith, you know,” he told him. “Does he know you? Have you an appointment?” If Sheridan hadn’t happened to be passing down the hall at that moment and, witnessing the scene, been struck by the look of moral outrage upon the young man’s face, no doubt Mr. Ian Law would have been summarily ejected. As it was, he brought him into his office and asked him courteously what was the matter.
The young man appeared to belong to the superior artisan class. He was a shipyard worker in Belfast. He had been visiting Dublin, where he had never been before, and had read the latest issue of the newspaper. In it he had read an editorial, a measured and reasonable piece in Sheridan’s opinion, on the prospects for Home Rule. And he was outraged. He did not mean to be discourteous to Sheridan, evidently. But he seemed astounded that Sheridan and his newspaper could even consider that Home Rule was a possibility.
“How can your newspaper suggest,” he demanded, “that we should give up every loyalty that we have? Am I to turn my face away from my King and from my God?” He said the words with such certainty and such pride that Sheridan was quite taken aback. “We remember the Battle of the
He was an honest young man. Sheridan could see that at once. No doubt he came from a hard-working Presbyterian family. His outrage was certainly real.
“I don’t think that Irish Home Rule would affect the practice of your religion,” Sheridan pointed out. But young Mr. Law only looked at him with disgust.
“Home Rule is Rome rule,” he said bluntly. “We’ll fight, I can promise you.” Having received no satisfaction, he left soon afterwards.
And as he pondered the conversation afterwards, it occurred to Sheridan that, though he couldn’t of course agree with the young man’s view of the world, Law had nonetheless administered a corrective to a long-held view of matters in Dublin.
The truth was, it seemed to Sheridan, that none of those who had wanted independence for Ireland had thought about Ulster very much. Daniel O’Connell had always cheerfully admitted that he scarcely knew the province. Even Parnell, Protestant though he was, had never had much interest in the northern province. After that, it was so fixed in everyone’s minds that the Protestants were the oppressors in Ireland, and that once the English were gone, the island would be free, and nobody had troubled much about the fact that up in Ulster, the situation was entirely different.
After all, he thought, what was the Protestant Church in most of Ireland? The Ascendancy’s Church of Ireland. Poorly attended, with little enthusiasm, its churches slowly crumbling for lack of funds and interest, the Church of Ireland was a social institution, for the most part, serving a small, slowly degenerating minority of Cromwellian settlers and ancient landowners. Take away the Ascendancy, and the Protestants become a tiny, toothless minority which can safely be left alone.
But up in Ulster, you had a whole country where, though Catholics were numerous, Protestants were in a majority. And they were not just the gentry. Small farmers, shopkeepers, the large and skilled workforce, were mostly Protestant. Not only that, the Presbyterians who constituted the largest element were passionate about their faith. If, in Ireland’s other three provinces, the Protestant ruling class had some secret fears or moral qualms about their legitimacy, nowadays, the Ulster Presbyterians had no such doubts at all. God had placed them there to build His kingdom. They were sure of it.
Yet even then, Sheridan had been shocked by the strength of the response. For when they saw that the independence legislation might actually go through the parliamentary system now, it was not only the Protestants of Ulster who were up in arms. Like their Scottish ancestors from three centuries before, they came together to pledge a Solemn League and Covenant. Led by Carson, an eloquent Unionist lawyer, and Craig, a Belfast millionaire, by the next year, they had formed a huge force of volunteers. The Ulster Volunteer Force had only wooden rifles, but they mounted impressive parades. Equally alarming, the leader of the British Tory party, himself of Ulster Protestant descent, not only supported them, but even hinted at the necessity of armed resistance. At the great military encampment of the Curragh, out in County Kildare, the officers of the British army let it be known that, if asked to enforce Irish independence upon the loyal Ulstermen, they would refuse to obey orders.
“To be frank with you,” an English journalist visiting the paper told him, “the British people feel a strong sympathy with the Ulster Protestants for two reasons. Firstly, we in England have never lost our deep-rooted fear of Catholicism. Few Englishmen would tolerate the thought of being dominated by Catholics, and we can’t see why the Protestants of Ulster should have to go that way either. But we also think that the Ulster Scots are people like us. They have industry and commerce, they have shipyards now, and linen manufacture. They’re hard-working and industrial. Whereas the Irish are seen as another sort of people entirely—rural, lazy, disorganised. We actually believe them to be of a different race from the men in the north.”
“Did you know that originally, it was men from Ireland who went over and settled Scotland? The very name, ‘Scot,’ in ancient times meant a person from Ireland. The Scots are actually Irish, you might say.”
“The English, I can assure you, are not aware of that. And you can’t deny that the Protestants up in Ulster are very different.”
That he could not deny. By the spring of 1914, the Ulster Volunteers were shipping in quantities of arms.
Meanwhile, it seemed that the Protestants in the north were to be met with an equal response. An Irish Volunteer Force was being formed in answer. Soon, news came that they were getting arms shipped in as well. Was the country drifting towards some sort of Civil War? Sheridan did not know what might have happened had it not been for the intervention, just then, of a wider conflict that overshadowed everything else.
Down in Sarajevo, an Austrian archduke was assassinated, and suddenly the whole of Europe found itself at war.
It was a curious feature of the Great War that for many of those who loved Ireland, it came as a relief. The British government, anxious that nothing should distract from the war effort, promised that there should be independence for the island, to be deferred until the war was over. “Since nobody thinks the war can last more than a few months, nobody minds waiting,” Sheridan pointed out. As for Ulster, it was agreed that some special arrangement would have to be made. What form that might take remained to be seen. But at least the threat of internal conflict had been shelved. Indeed, Redmond encouraged all those who had flocked to join the Irish Volunteers: “The British have promised us our freedom. Let us help them with their war effort, that our freedom may come all the sooner.” Tens of thousands of Irishmen, Protestants and Catholics alike, were joining the volunteer British army. “I find it heart-warming to see such friendship,” Sheridan Smith declared. The great conflict, therefore, brought him a certain lightening of the heart.
And in his own life, also, he entered a period of unexpected happiness. The cause was Caitlin.
Her interest in the stage, fortunately, had not developed into an obsession. If anything, it had aided in her schoolwork. Certainly the Dominican nuns in Eccles Street, where she went to school, were delighted with her. By the time she was sixteen, she had announced that when she finished school, she wanted to go to St. Mary’s University to study modern languages. At the same time, she was developing not only into a beautiful young woman but into a thoughtful one as well. Late in 1914, after a short illness, old Maureen Smith had peacefully died, and Caitlin had helped to nurse her at the end. By the time she was seventeen, when her mother made a visit to England for a month, she had felt quite confident that she could leave Caitlin in charge of the house in Fitzwilliam Square. The servants were there to take care of her, of course, and Sheridan had looked in every day. “But the truth is,” her mother said, “she could do perfectly well without us.”
She had also joined the Daughters of Erin. Sheridan was not sure what he felt about this. When he questioned her about it, however, she had just laughed. “I teach Irish to illiterate children—which really means that I tell them stories,” she told him. No doubt this was true. But Sheridan had heard that some of the women in the organisation were involved in other activities that were more disturbing.
The labour movement had been growing rapidly in the last few years. The union had a big headquarters called Liberty Hall down on the quays nowadays; a women’s union had been started as well. And the movement had a new leader, too—a socialist firebrand called James Connolly. In 1913 Connolly had led a huge strike for improved conditions that had closed all sorts of businesses for weeks. Even staid old Jacobs Biscuits had been hit. Some of the Daughters of Erin had taken part in the strikes. They were getting involved with Sinn Fein and some other dubious organisations. “You take care who you become friendly with,” he had advised her. But she was a sensible girl; so he wasn’t seriously worried. Meanwhile, he had had the joy of watching a marvellous chi
It was in the summer of 1915 that he had taken Caitlin and her mother up into the Wicklow Mountains. Their purpose had been twofold: to visit the lovely old site of Glendalough and to see Rathconan. Rather surprisingly, the Count had never cared to go up to look at his ancestral estate when he was alive, and as a result, neither Caitlin nor her mother had ever been there. Caitlin, especially, had been eager to go. The visit to the old monastery and its two lakes had been a great success. But when they had come to Rathconan, Caitlin had been enraptured. Its eccentric owner had been in residence at the time, turban and all. Sheridan hadn’t been too sure what sort of reception they’d get; but learning who they were, old Mrs. Budge had been quite happy to show them the place, without even giving them a lecture on the transmigration of souls. But when, at the end, Caitlin had exclaimed: “Oh, how I should like to live here,” the old lady had responded rather sharply: “The Budges will be staying at Rathconan long after I’ve gone; so there’ll be no place for you. None at all.” And then, rather disconcertingly: “I shall be staying here, too,” she’d added. “I’m going to be a hawk, you know. I shall fly over the hills and eat mice.”
Sheridan had always heard that Rose Budge was the last of the family. But meeting his brother a few weeks later, he had asked about it, and Quinlan had informed him: “I had supposed so, too. But it turns out that the grandfather had a younger brother who went to England many years ago. The old lady has a second cousin, a Budge, who has a son. They’ve never met, and the son doesn’t even know it, but she’s left him Rathconan.” He’d shaken his head. “She’s full of surprises.”