Stars and Stripes in Peril (42 page)

"You're a Teague," Lytle snarled.

"No, sir," Reynolds said coldly. "I am an Irish Catholic who is now an American citizen. In our country there is complete separation of Church and State. There is no official state religion..."

"But you will side with the Catholics against the Protestants, that's what you will do..."

"Mr. Lytle." Lee's words cracked like a whip, silencing the man. "If you came here for a religious argument you may leave now. If you came as an elected official of this city, then address yourself to your reasons for your presence."

Lytle was breathing hard, unable to speak. It was Councilor Mullan who broke the silence.

"General, the Protestants in the north are a much maligned people who are now united in peace with one another. We are a hard-working people who have built Belfast, in very few years, into a successful and growing city. We weave linen and build ships. But if we unite with the backward south—there will be changes I am sure. The past has been a turbulent one, but that I feel is over. Now what will happen to us?"

"You, and every other resident of this island, will be treated equally. I sincerely hope that you all follow the example of the people of Canada, where national elections have been held and a government has been democratically elected. The same we hope will be true of Mexico in the near future, now that the invading army has been expelled."

"If you let
them
rule us there will be murder in the streets—"

"Mr. Lytle," Reynolds said quietly, "there is no more
'them.'
There is only democracy now, where all men are equal. One man, one vote. I should think that as an elected official yourself you would respect that fact. Ireland will no longer be ruled from above, ruled by a distant monarch and a self-appointed nobility. You are a free man and you should be grateful for that freedom."

"Freedom!" he cried out. "We are ruled by invaders!"

"For the moment," Lee said calmly. "But when you have had your election we will be more than happy to leave. You will have your own police force then to protect you, an army of your own as well to guard against foreign invasion if that is threatened. We have offered you freedom from foreign rule. You would be wise to take it."

The mayor glared pure hatred. Unspoken was the knowledge that his Protestant majority in Northern Ireland would now be a minority in Catholic Ireland.

"You cannot be sure that the new Ireland will not have a place for you," Surgeon Reynolds said quietly. "If we fight for equality we may be able to forget the inequalities of the past. Is that not worth working for? Do you see my blue uniform and General Lee's gray one? Do you know the significance of this? We fought a terrible civil war, brother killing brother—and now we have turned our backs on it and live in peace. Can you not abandon your tribal loyalties and learn to live in peace with your brothers who share this island? Isn't that a goal worth achieving, an ambition worth attaining?"

His answer was only grim silence. But from their expressions it was obvious that the two men were not pleased with the prospect of a brave new world.

Lee spoke into the silence.

"You gentlemen may go. Please contact me at any time concerning matters of the public good. We are all on the same side, as Surgeon Reynolds has so eloquently said.

"The side of peace."

Despite General Sherman's refusal to let him be anywhere near the invasion fleet, John Stuart Mill had still managed to arrive in Ireland as soon as hostilities were at an end. By appealing directly to President Lincoln, who had spoken to the Secretary of the Navy, who had confided in Admiral Farragut, who in turn had gone to Commodore Goldsborough for aid. Goldsborough made the eminently practical suggestion that Mill should see the war from the deck of his ship, the USS
Avenger.
Since the British had no ironclads that could better—or even equal—her in strength, his safety would not be put into question. Mill greatly enjoyed this wartime experience, particularly when the great ship had fired at an unseen target in Dublin, using the most modern communication, and had in this manner brought about the surrender of the British troops in Dublin Castle.

Only when martial law had been partially lifted was he permitted ashore. Even then a troop of cavalry escorted his carriage from the dock to Fitzwilliam Square, while General Sherman's aide, Colonel Roberts, accompanied him.

"It is a splendid city," Mill said looking at the leafy square and the handsome Georgian houses that surrounded it. The colonel pointed.

"There it is, number ten. It is all yours. Don't know who the owner is yet, but we do know that he left with one bag on the first mailboat from Kingstown after hostilities ended. So it is yours for as long as you need it."

The two soldiers on guard outside saluted as they went in. "Wonderful, wonderful," Mill said as they walked through the elegant rooms and admired the handsome garden to the rear. "A suitable setting for the foundation of a new state. Here will meet the men whose task that will be. Thank heavens that they will have such an excellent model to hand, less than a hundred years old."

"I think, at this point, that you have lost me, sir."

"Nonsense, my dear fellow, you know all about this Union that you fight to defend. You should be very proud of it. You have your own Congress—and your own Constitution. It was indeed the rule of law, and constitutional responsibility, as pointed out by Lord Coke, that your founding fathers used as a model. It is my great hope that Ireland shall build upon that model in return. First a constitutional congress—and then a constitution. Remember, that all during the Revolutionary period, Americans relied upon their possession of the rights of Englishmen, and the claim that infringement upon those rights was unconstitutional and void. That claim could not, however, rest upon a secure legal foundation until the rights of Americans were protected in written organic instruments. Such protection came with the adoption of written constitutions and bills of rights in the states, as soon as independence had severed their ties with the mother country. The American army has indeed succeeded in severing the Irish ties with Great Britain. Now I am sure that you are wondering how the rights guaranteed by these new constitutions can be enforced?"

Colonel Roberts was thinking nothing of the kind. In fact he wished that he were back in the heat of battle rather than facing up to the seemingly incomprehensible enthusiasms of John Stuart Mill. "Guaranteed rights..." he finally muttered. "Enforced?"

"As, of course, they must be protected. The American genius was the adaptation of a system of checks and balances. The answer to this question is, of course, ultimately, judicial review. That is the function of the Supreme Court. Ireland is very much in need of this rule of law. For the British have never looked upon Ireland as an integral part of the United Kingdom, like Scotland, but as a remote and certainly different part. A backward land set in unprofitable and obscurantist ways of life and thought. All that will change. As a new democracy, separate at last, this country can only look forward to a brilliant future."

17 MARCH 1864

Perhaps it was the power of prayer rising from every church across the land that brought this particular sunrise, shining golden shafts across the sea. For over two weeks it had rained ceaselessly, remorselessly, cruelly, until it was a wonder that all of Ireland was not washed into the surrounding ocean. Surely everyone was praying for an end of the rain on this most important of all days.

Nevertheless, from dawn to dusk, on the Wednesday it had rained as hard as on any other of the days. But not a cloud was in sight on Thursday morning, St. Patrick's Day morning, the birth-of-a-country morning.

Mist rose from the grass in Phoenix Park, Dublin, to be burned away by the sun. The tock-tock of hammers on wood sounded through the still air as the final work was done on the viewing stands. Soldiers, in their new dark green uniforms, marched and stamped and saluted as they changed the guard and, my, but there was a new rhythm to their march.

" 'Tis a grand day," the captain of the old guard said.

"Aye—and a grand day for old Ireland," said the captain of the new.

The city was waking, streamers of smoke lazing up from the myriad chimneypots. The clop of horses' hooves sounded on cobbles as the bakers' carts made their rounds. Above Sackville Street, across and down the street from the General Post Office, a man was standing at the open window of the Gresham Hotel, breathing in the fresh morning air. The lines of tension on his forehead, and around his eyes, eased a bit as he rubbed long fingers through his thick, and graying, beard.

"Come away from that window—you'll get your death," Mary called out from the depths of the feather bed.

"Yes, mother," Abraham Lincoln said as he closed the window. "But it is a glorious day—how fitting for such a glorious occasion."

"Noon, you said, the ceremony. We must leave time..."

He sat on the bed and patted her hand. "We have all the time in the world. The carriage will be here at eleven. This will be a day to remember, indeed it will."

He was glad now that he had insisted she come for this most important of ceremonies. His advisers had wanted him to use the time for electioneering for the presidential election in the fall. But the strain of the war had left him drained. And he wanted to devote some time to Mary, who was suffering more and more from melancholia. It had been a wise decision. Much of her listlessness had gone, the wandering attention, the sudden bouts of crying. The ocean voyage had helped; she had been much taken by their luxurious staterooms aboard the new steam liner the
United States.
And Dublin had been one party after another as ministers and officials from dozens of countries vied each to outdo the other.

Abraham Lincoln wandered through the suite, found the sitting room where he rugged on the bell pull. The knock on the door seemed to come brief instants later; he ordered coffee. Sat sipping it after it came.

The Irish had outdone themselves in their enthusiasm for their new-found democracy. A quickly assembled committee of politicians and lawyers, under the gentle guidance of John Stuart Mill, had hammered out a constitution, based, like the Mexican constitution of 1823, upon the American model. The judges of the new Supreme Court had been chosen, and preparation for a national election was soon in hand.

Even while this was going on the closed-up constabulary stations were being opened and dusted out, while the first officers of the National Police were installed there. What if many of them were veterans of the American army? They were strong and willing—and were Irish. Policemen who were no longer the servants of foreign masters to be feared rather than trusted. The fact that their senior officers were all volunteers from the American army was, of course, known, but since they were never seen in public little notice was made of it. These were temporary commands, the public were assured, until the police themselves had more experience.

In Belfast and the north an uneasy truce prevailed. When the last British soldiers had been seized and cleared from the land, martial law had been eased. But the American soldiers remained in the barracks and were quick to respond to any breaches of the peace. Political meetings were encouraged; political marches strictly banned. Surgeon Reynolds was relieved of his medical duties and sat on the Ulster Police Committee screening candidates for the new National Police. Discrimination by religion was completely forbidden: no one could be asked his religion. But his address, that was something else again, since everyone in the north knew their tribal lands to the inch. Under Reynolds's watchful eye, and the quick clamping down on any dissension, the police force was slowly organized. Not by chance, half Protestant, half Catholic.

The pay was good, the uniforms new, promotion fast for the talented.

Dismissal instant at the slightest hint of religious discrimination. The police ranks thinned, then grew again, until they finally stabilized. Like it or not, Ireland, both north and south, was becoming a country of law and equality; discrimination was no longer the rule.

The elections ran far more smoothly than anyone had expected. Of course some of the districts had ballot boxes with more votes than voters, but after all this was Ireland and this sort of thing was expected. Events got a bit riotous on election night and a few heads had to be knocked. But no records were kept, there would be no recriminations, and the cells were turned out next morning.

In five short months the sweet breath of liberty had swept across the land. The courts were opened and Irish judges presided. The Encumbered Estates Courts were abandoned. The new courts ruled fairly on old disputes, settled ancient land claims, presided over the partitioning of giant English estates. The Duke of Leinster had to bid farewell to his 73,000 acres in Kildare and Meath, the Marquis of Downshire lost 115,000 acres as well. Each court dispensed justice beneath the eyes of an officer of the American Provost Marshall General's Office. Americans had fought—and died—to win this war. They were not going to lose the peace. They wanted old feuds forgotten, old differences finally put by. And so far it seemed to be working.

In a week the newly elected Congress would be seated in the Senate Building in Dublin.

And today the first democratically elected President of the Irish Republic, Jeremiah O'Donovan Rossa would be sworn into office. That the new Chief Justice of the Supreme Court would administer the oath, not Archbishop Cullen, was a law that was firmly implanted in the new Constitution, and strongly backed by the liberating army. There was an iron fist inside the velvet glove. The bishops, who had worked hard to remain in power, were put out by what they claimed was the bypassing of their authority.

The Americans were adamant. Church and State were separate. Religion had no place in politics. The new constitution was very clear on this matter and could not be challenged. If John Stuart Mill was advising from behind the scenes only his spirit was observed, never the man himself.