Authors: Redemption
Tags: #Europe, #Ireland, #Literary Collections, #Historical Fiction, #Fiction, #Romance, #Sagas, #Historical, #Australian & Oceanian, #New Zealand, #General, #New Zealand Fiction, #History
Leon Uris (68 page)
“Did you hear it?” he cried.
“Aye, are you sure it was rifle shots?”
We spent the next hours frantic until our fears were confirmed: we finally found Kathleen Clarke, just after being advised to come to Kilmainham Prison and remove Tom’s body.
It was she, God love her, who kept me together. I had to wait outside the gates while she went in and fetched him in
the funeral wagon. Kathleen had married Tom after he had served fifteen years hard labor for Fenian activities. Old Tom, the tobacconist, led the Brotherhood. His lady was pregnant with their fourth child. He was dead now, gunned down by a firing squad.
and
As he was leaving Kilmainham, another funeral wagon passed us. I went from one to the other. Damned, it was Tom MacDonagh. No place for him to be shot dead. He was Brotherhood, sure enough, but he was an educator, a poet, a critic, a founder of the Irish Theatre, the editor of a periodical. I loved the nights at his cottage, which was the intellectual hub of the Gaelic revival. This battle-hardened, failed painter, who tried and lost in Paris, had commanded Jacob’s Biscuit Factory.
and
The fear that stabbed me. Shooting down the first president of the Irish Republic on this day was shoving it in our face. A year ago he had stirred the nation with an awakening eulogy over the grave of an old Fenian sent back from America.
Padraic Pearse was taken to the wall in Stonebraker’s Yard and only then saw Tom Clarke’s and MacDonagh’s bodies, still and lifeless at the foot of the wall.
Down he went in a volley: the mystic Gael, the writer of excellent verse, the Royal University graduate, the lifelong educator.
A short and terse announcement came at the end of the day from Dublin Castle that Pearse, Clarke, and MacDonagh had been found guilty of treason by a military tribunal and executed by a firing squad.
* * *
Ah, you can envision what went on now with so many others under death sentence, can ye not? Irishmen doing their Irish thing, that last writing of defiance…or simply expressing the love they were leaving for their family…visits, not knowing if they were last visits…priests intoning…other priests daring to speak out from the pulpit for the first time in protest…
Dawn came with chilled hearts and breaths held…and then, the crackling volley of gunfire…again.
That’s the day they killed Joe Plunkett, another academic, born of aristocracy. Joe Mary Plunkett had been dying of tuberculosis but left his hospital bed to join the Rising and do whatever a man in his condition could do.
He married the sister of Tom MacDonagh’s wife in Kilmainham just prior to their shooting him.
and
Ned Daly who commanded so well at Four Courts but had the misfortune of being Tom Clarke’s brother-in-law.
and
Willie Pearse, similarly afflicted with the curse of being Padraic Pearse’s brother.
and
Michael O’Hanrahan, a literary man. His will and sole possession, the copyright of his first published book.
John MacBride had his very own day. He was a symbol of long-standing hatred, selected for revenge.
Old John was on no one’s war council, just an Irish rover with a drinking problem who had somehow won and wed one of Ireland’s great beauties, Maud Gonne, an actress like my mother. They had separated.
In his earlier rovings, John MacBride had fought on the side of the Boers against the British and was given the rank of major.
The British had never forgotten or forgiven that he had taken up arms against them a decade earlier. He went to his maker with bravado, snarling that he had looked into British rifle barrels before. His death was particularly pointless and nasty.
For a moment the executions stopped. They were creating a foul stench on the face of sweet justice. Asquith, the British prime minister, assured the ineffective John Redmond that he himself was shocked at the carnage; he promised to slow things down.
The Irish playwright George Bernard Shaw wrote a scathing article in England that the Irishmen recently shot had been killed in cold blood after surrender.
The first stirrings of outside resentment.
The British executed Eamonn Ceannt, a handsome Irish lad who loved and lived his Irishness by speaking the ancient language, playing the pipes, and dancing the jigs and reels. His exclusive military background was that of working in the City Treasurer’s office.
and
Michael Mallin, a silk weaver with four kids and another on the way who had once drummed in the British Army in India. He was second in command to the Countess Markievicz at St. Stephen’s Green and the College of Surgeons.
and
Con Colbert, a bakery clerk and one of eleven children. He was a proud drill instructor in the Home Army who didn’t have the worst of it during the Rising, seizing and commanding Watkin’s Brewery.
and
Sean Heuston, a twenty-five-year-old lad from Limerick whose religious family proudly included a nun and a priest. He had captured the Mendacity Hospital.
To give things a nationwide caution, Thomas Kent was executed in Cork, where his three brothers and eighty-four-year-old mom resisted till their ammunition ran out.
A nightmarish aspect began to grip Ireland, and curious journalists from abroad were finding their way in. General Brodhead proved so intransigent that, at last, Asquith arrived. Yet, he arrived cleverly, not in time to stop the killings….
Sean McDermott, a jolly Irish barman of thirty, crippled by polio, who also had the misfortune of being Tom Clarke’s best friend.
and
James Connolly, a man of stature and a powerful symbol of the Rising. Connolly, a Scottish-born, self-educated labor leader and father of seven living children, was a tough man in a dangerous profession in perilous times, a no-nonsense, dedicated republican and socialist.
At the General Post Office Connolly had been twice wounded, receiving a smashed left ankle and a fractured shinbone, but he continued to direct the battle from a cot.
Unable to walk, he was removed from his cell on a stretcher and strapped into a chair, then shot by the firing squad as he sat there. The manner of Connolly’s execution, killed in truth for the crime of being a union organizer, made a most indelible mark on the public.
Asquith slipped back to England later that night. With Connolly as the cherry on the cake, the prime minister called a temporary halt to the executions and shifted focus to England’s very own traitor, Sir Roger Casement.
Had England’s statement overreached its purpose in those days following the Rising? I think there now stands a small but possible chance that this is the case. As your man here said before, you just don’t go around shooting poets.
Rory was welcomed into Dublin Castle in a manner fit for royalty. General Brodhead personally met him at the door in a velvet smoking jacket of hunting-coat red trimmed with black satin collar and pockets.
“Landers! By Jove, it’s good to see you again,” he said, extending his hand. Rory was unable to reach him with his own stiffened arm in gloved fingers.
“Oh sorry,” the General said, “how is that, anyhow?”
“Not bad at all,” Rory said, wiggling his arm. “They’ve been doing a lot of patchwork surgery on it. I’ll possibly get forty to fifty percent use of it back. The doctors feel they’ve done as much as they can do for now. They want to make a judgment in a few months after I do a routine of exercises.”
“Bad luck,” Brodhead said.
“Well, it’s pretty good for holding things. A whiskey glass or a beer bottle fits right in. I can hold a book and turn the pages with the other hand…I did discover I was a right-handed toilet paper user, very awkward, that switch-over.”
Damn, he liked the lad’s spirit! “How about the eyes?”
“The doctors call my condition concussive injury to the optic nerve. I can see fairly well. I can get around, even ride a horse, which is most important. My sight will suddenly come clear for periods, but I can’t do detail work. Eventually I’ll be fitted with special glasses.”
“You certainly look more chipper than the last time I saw you in Wandsworth Hospital in London and pinned the Victoria Cross on you. Too bad about the lad who got you back to the beach.”
“Flynn.”
“Died on the launch out.”
“I suppose we stopped the last grenade the Turks threw.”
“I must say,” Brodhead puffed up, “the evacuation was a masterpiece, without casualty. The Turks had their minds on the mules you ran up the gully. Too bad about the mules.”
“Yes,” Rory whispered, “too bad about the mules.”
“Have a seat, Lieutenant. Let’s see if we have anything here better than navy grog.”
Rory studied the room he could only see in images. Like most of Anglo Dublin, it displayed a tattered elegance. The General rang for his batsman who returned with a pair of stiff Irish whiskeys. Although it was May, the fire was good stuff to cut the chill off the Castle’s stones.
“Cheers.”
“Cheers, sir.”
“Obviously I was hoping for a command on the Western Front,” Brodhead said, “but once I understood my mission here, I realized that this is precisely where I was destined to be. As an Ulsterman, I’ve been dealing with these Irish scoundrels all my life, and I believe I am in place to help clear up this condition for all time. This island is part and parcel of Great Britain. Their treacherous attempt at secession makes it clear that the Irish must be made to accept their status as British. By the way, you’re not of Irish descent, are you?”
“Not that I know of, sir. My mother’s parents are both English. Dad is Swedish, German, New Zealand, one of those mongrel mixes.”
“Catholic?”
Rory shrugged. “Not seriously,” he said.
“Any political feelings about the so-called Rising here last month?”
“I’m a New Zealander, sir. The business over here didn’t
make a lot of sense to me. Didn’t we have Irish troops, Dubliners, down at Cape Helles?”
“Indeed we did and we have Irish in the trenches in France. We are all British, wot?”
Rory smiled in agreement.
“You missed a hell of a show. I personally attended the execution of all sixteen of the blighters. Bloody interesting. Unfortunately, a temporary suspension has been called in the executions…against my strong objections…but…we still hold eighty of them under sentence of death.”
“Are you going to resume the executions?” Rory asked. “I’d like to see one.”
“God knows what the politicians are up to, but I think for now we are going to have a wait and see how they behave. If they stir things up with their editorials, streetcorner rabble-rousing and rioting, we can always resume the firing squads….” He paced and lectured. “For the moment there is only one traitor who matters. Sir Roger Casement. He’s in the Tower of London, where he belongs. He will be given a good English trial, then we’ll hang him. It is imperative. Casement must be the one public showcase.”
“Sorry, sir, but you’ll have to excuse my ignorance. Can’t read a newspaper without a magnifying glass.”
“That son of a bitch, Casement. An Ulsterman, yet! After he was knighted, mind you, that son of a bitch conspired with the Germans against us. He’s a fucking queer, you know. We’re going to get him the same way Edward Carson got that other Irish queer, Oscar Wilde. Runs in the race.”
Brodhead was quick to refill both glasses, warming up to the principal gist of his invitation for Landers to come to Ireland.
“Landers, the Gallipoli Commission of Inquiry is still open-ended, apt to keep digging up what is past. I think everyone knows what they have to know about a very dicey military situation. The only purpose now for further inquiry comes from those Liberals who are trying to pin a black eye on our military. You might be called to testify.”
“Me, sir? I certainly have no qualifications to render opinions.”
“Don’t be too modest. You were privy to a great many planning meetings. That Victoria Cross makes your word extremely important in their eyes. Specifically, I am told, you may be wanted to testify on what took place atop Chunuk Bair.”
Rory sensed that he had fallen into a situation of splendid serendipity. Brodhead would owe him a great deal if he played the General’s game now.
“I don’t know how to answer that, sir.”
“There’s talk that, when Colonel Markham arrived from headquarters, he placed Colonel Malone under arrest on my orders. Furthermore, Major Hubble is alleged to have refused to carry out the arrest.”
“I can’t help you on that, General. I wasn’t anywhere near them at the time.”
“You heard nothing between Markham and Malone?”
“No sir.”
“You’ve heard nothing since?”
“Christ, I hear all sorts of things every day. Rumors fly, you know. If the two colonels were in disagreement, I just didn’t know.”
Brodhead took his seat and edged forward. “They are looking for a scapegoat, you see. And I’ll tell you why. After the war, they want to stand the Army down to nothing. The more upper echelon staff they can discredit, the greater the argument to cut off our funds. Do you realize we may not end up with an army large enough to defend the Empire? They have destroyed Churchill. Well, Churchill wasn’t exactly one of my favorites, but he
did
bloody well have the Navy ready for war and his father
was
Lord Randolph Churchill…. Excuse me…just thinking out loud. The Aussies, in particular, are out to get me. A journalist by the name of Keith Murdoch thinks the Nek attack was unnecessary, when common sense shows that it had to be done to protect the Suvla Bay Corps…. One
last thing—Colonels Malone and Markham were killed by Turkish fire, were they not?”
Rory picked up the General’s concern, clearly. “Yes, sir. The Turks were hitting us with mortar fire prior to their charge to retake Chunuk Bair. Major Hubble and Jeremy went out to the perimeter to stop them.”
“Well then, and this is hypothetical…suppose, for argument’s sake…you
were
present but did not hear Colonel Markham give orders to arrest Malone. Suppose Colonel Malone wanted to stay on Chunuk Bair and you heard Colonel Markham say that he was representing General Brodhead and, after looking over the situation, thought it would be best to get off Chunuk Bair…. Hypothetical, of course.”
Rory had no trouble buying into Brodhead’s lies because it could continue to give him access to the General and to Dublin Castle. For what purpose, he did not yet know, but he was in Ireland to find out.
“I’d say that was about the way it went,” Rory said.
“Suppose you could manage that if you’re called?”
“You’re my general, sir,” Rory answered.
The General’s butler arrived and announced dinner. Brodhead led Rory to the dining room with his arm about the young man’s shoulders. “I think you’ll find this a tad better than what we were eating at Anzac Cove.”
Indeed it was, from venison down to an extravagant trifle. Chitchat and remembrances of a pair of good fellows wove through the courses. When the decanter of Napoleon was opened, warmed by flame in its great bubble glasses and swished about, Brodhead returned to serious matters once more.
“What is your status vis-á-vis the Army?”
“Your invitation for me to come to Ireland was just perfect, sir. As I said, the medical staff feels I’ve gone as far as I can for now and really don’t need hospital control. I opted for an open-ended furlough and I’m free for three months. I could return to New Zealand for a discharge. Or,
I could stay in England after a final medical evaluation. It’s rather up to me.”
“Do you have anything to do in Ireland?”
“I want very much to see Countess Caroline Hubble.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Flynn, the chap who got me to the beach, has grandparents and other relatives here. Two of the other men in the battalion also had Irish relations. I’ll call on them.”
“After that?”
“Little meditation somewhere. When I’m meditated out, I’ll probably try to wipe out London.”
Brodhead chuckled.
“You might like it here in Ireland, Landers. It has some rather decent places. Splendid boating at Kinsale. I could lay that on for you. Also, some marvelous private trout streams in Ulster. Horses, they are good with horses, the Irish—about the only thing they’re good at. Some of the scenery in the west is worth taking in. The people are strange but harmless. They are awful liars. You’ll find that out the first time you ask for directions.”
“Never thought about staying in Ireland for any time.”
“Landers, I’ve done something naughty.”
“You, sir?”
“Sometimes when an exceptional officer is up for medical discharge, the War Office will make an exception, if…a ranking officer requests him for special duty.”
GLORY! “Sorry, General, I don’t follow you.”
“I am convinced that what I am doing here in Ireland will do as much to preserve the British Empire as our army in France. It is vital to our continued imperial existence that we silence the Irish. We can’t have Irish ale house politicians pounding on the peace table, now, can we. They’ll set off unrest through our entire colonies.”
“I think I understand what you’re saying, sir.”
Brodhead reached into the pocket of his smoking jacket and withdrew a handful of officer’s pips. “I wore these when I was promoted to captain, more years ago than I’d
like to think about. The War Ministry is willing to grant exception if you remain in Ireland on my personal staff.”
Rory seemed bewildered.
“I’ll tell you why, Landers. I’m putting together a small but unique team of officers, directly reporting only to me, to see and hear and know everything that is happening in this country. You are one of the most ingenious young men I’ve come across. You get things done, if by the rule or not. I know how you smuggled Dr. Norman off Gallipoli. I also know how many Turks you killed during their counterattack. Stick with the Army for a few more years. I see nothing but a brilliant career for you…and, I need you.”
“I’m a New Zealander, sir.”
“Well, New Zealanders are British! You signed up for the duration.”
“In actual fact, I’m not all that anxious to return home this way, and particularly after what you’ve offered me.”
“Well, good enough. If I may indulge in a moment of sentimentality, you would be taking Christopher Hubble’s place. How say you?”
“Pretty heady stuff, sir. Let me make my rounds here in Ireland and report back to you. Let me think it through.”
“And I’ll hold these for you,” he said putting the pips back in his pocket. “So, where do you head for first?”
“I’ve been in contact by phone and mail with Countess Hubble. She was unable to travel to London to see me. Seems that her father has had a severe stroke and is completely paralyzed.”
Brodhead rested his head on his chin, sadly. “Beastly time for that great family,” he murmured. “Lord Roger, a most, most wonderful human being simply sailed off into eternity, God rest his soul. Sir Frederick! What an Ulsterman that was! Caroline told me he was stricken over the boys.”
“How will I find her?”
“The most exquisite creature who ever graced Ulster,” Brodhead said. “She’s not a child any longer, in her mid-fifties, but she is still the queen of Ulster in my book.
When I paid her my sympathy call, it was she who was worried about me rather than about herself.”
“I’m anxious to see her.”
Brodhead took a long sip of the potent cognac and his eyes showed the first glaze of intoxication. “Shall I let you in on a secret?”
“Please don’t tell me anything you’ll regret tomorrow.”
“Oh, you’ll know what I mean when you lay eyes on her. I have adored that woman, from afar, for three decades. Of course, I’ve never been so much as a ha’penny out of line. Lord Roger and I were thick chums. With him gone, so tragically…and my own marriage rather…well…stale…Beatrice and I have had separate bedrooms for years. Good Lord, what am I prattling on about?”
“Sounds very understandable to me, General.”
“Caroline is a bit of a wild one, wrong politics, and all that—a
carefree
youth in Paris. She’s got this Irish clown Galloway hanging around her—for the money, no doubt—but he’s off in London, producing a play or something. Lord Roger kept her in hand, made a great woman out of her. Now, by God, she’s doing the right thing, staying in Belfast at her father’s side.” He stopped to see how this was going down with Landers. Yes, Landers was showing loyalty incarnate.
“General Brodhead, I am honored by your trust.”
Sir Llewelyn cleared his throat.
“She is best handled by a strong person like Lord Roger. It would seem that she’s ready for a real man to comfort her now.”
“Lady Caroline will certainly know of my own feelings toward you, sir.”
Brodhead grinned broadly. “Do think it over and come back as one of my aides.”
