Authors: Morgan Llywelyn
1972 (28 page)
September 21, 1964
MALTA ATTAINS INDEPENDENCE WITHIN THE BRITISH COMMONWEALTH
Activists launch campaign for a Republic.
September 27, 1964
IAN PAISLEY OUTRAGED BY SIGHT OF IRISH FLAG
Using sledgehammers, the RUC has broken down the door of Sinn Féin's Belfast office on Divis Street and destroyed a small tricolour flag flying from the window. Rev. Paisley had vowed to destroy it himself if the police did not.
December 10, 1964
MARTIN LUTHER KING JR. AWARDED NOBEL PEACE PRIZE
Workers on behalf of civil rights around the world rejoice.
O
N the fourteenth of January, 1965, Seán Lemass and Terence O'Neill had lunch together at Stormont. In a joint statement later that day the two claimed that neither political nor constitutional matters were discussed. Ian Paisley protested against the idea of any meeting whatsoever between the Irish taoiseach and the prime minister of Northern Ireland, but his protest came a day too late.
N the fourteenth of January, 1965, Seán Lemass and Terence O'Neill had lunch together at Stormont. In a joint statement later that day the two claimed that neither political nor constitutional matters were discussed. Ian Paisley protested against the idea of any meeting whatsoever between the Irish taoiseach and the prime minister of Northern Ireland, but his protest came a day too late.
Ten days later Sir Winston Churchill, twice prime minister of Great Britain, died. The United Kingdom and the British Commonwealth
were plunged into mourning. The world joined them in grief. No one would ever forget Churchill's defiant stand against Adolf Hitler.
were plunged into mourning. The world joined them in grief. No one would ever forget Churchill's defiant stand against Adolf Hitler.
The second of February was another historic day at Stormont. The Northern Ireland Nationalist Party became the official party of opposition. The government of the province was beginning to become more inclusive.
Upon learning that the archbishop of Canterbury was to fly to Rome to visit the pope, Ian Paisley caught the same aeroplane in order to stage a protest. When he arrived in Rome he was refused permission to leave the plane, however, and had to return to London.
In February, Roger Casement, hero of the Congo, former consul general to Rio de Janeiro, anti-colonialist and champion of human rights before his time, came home at last. Born in Dublin, Casement was brought up as a Protestant. Following family tradition he was also a unionist and a loyal servant of the Crown. In 1911 he was knighted by King George V for distinguished public service. Yet in 1916, and in spite of huge international protest, the British had hanged him as a traitor for his role in the Easter Rising.
Winston Churchill had always been adamant in his refusal to return Casement's body to Ireland. Harold Wilson's new Labour government wanted to put Anglo-Irish relations on a better footing for the sake of an upcoming trade agreement and the possibility of a European economic union. So on a bleak February afternoon, Roger Casement's remains were exhumed from the graveyard at Pentonville Prison. In the presence of a representative of the Irish government they were examined by a pathologist, formally identified, and put into a new coffin. The coffin was wrapped in an Irish flag and flown across the Irish Sea by Aer Lingus, the Irish national airline.
During the next five days Casement lay in state in the Church of the Sacred Heart, Arbour Hill Military Barracks,
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while many thousands filed past the bier. Touching the flag-draped coffin with their fingertips. Breathing a prayer for the soul of a man whose courage was legendary.
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while many thousands filed past the bier. Touching the flag-draped coffin with their fingertips. Breathing a prayer for the soul of a man whose courage was legendary.
Ursula Halloran wanted to go up to Dublin to pay her respects, but as she told Barry on the telephone, “I have three
pregnant mares about to drop their foals any minute. If at least one of the foals is a colt, though, I'll name him Sir Roger!”
pregnant mares about to drop their foals any minute. If at least one of the foals is a colt, though, I'll name him Sir Roger!”
On the first of March a contingent of the Irish army accompanied the funeral procession as it wound its way to Glasnevin Cemetery. A huge crowd lined the route.
Although film was very expensive, Barry purchased two rolls for the event. Leaving his bicycle in a shop doorway, he joined the ten-deep throng gathered on O'Connell Street to see the funeral cortege. Since he could not wedge himself through the crowd he held his camera aloft and photographed the procession over people's heads. Then he ran to his bicycle and raced to Glasnevin.
Mam had Constance Markievicz but I'm here for Roger Casement.
The cemetery was crowded with dignitaries. Eamon de Valera had risen from a sickbed to deliver the funeral oration. Barry was so preoccupied with organising his shots that the solemnity of the moment escaped him. As the ceremony drew to a close he snapped a last picture of de Valera just to use up the roll. He did not realise what he had until he developed the film.
Amidst lengthening shadows, one ray of light gently caressed the old man's gaunt features like a promise of forgiveness. That iconographic image would outlive both the president of Ireland and his photographer.
N
INETEEN sixty-five was a good year for Barry. His candid portrait of de Valera was reproduced in a dozen countries. By autumn he had a nonexclusive contract with an international news agency and was also employed as a stringer by a couple of American newspapers. The money involved would not make him wealthy, but it guaranteed he could pay his rent on time. He could take a woman to dinner at the Royal Hibernian Hotel instead of buying her a sandwich in Robert Roberts'.
INETEEN sixty-five was a good year for Barry. His candid portrait of de Valera was reproduced in a dozen countries. By autumn he had a nonexclusive contract with an international news agency and was also employed as a stringer by a couple of American newspapers. The money involved would not make him wealthy, but it guaranteed he could pay his rent on time. He could take a woman to dinner at the Royal Hibernian Hotel instead of buying her a sandwich in Robert Roberts'.
N
INTEEN sixty-six was the fiftieth anniversary of the Easter Rising. As the new year dawned, a veritable avalanche of radio and television programmes, lectures, books, plays, poems, and ballads about 1916 began to roll across Ireland.
INTEEN sixty-six was the fiftieth anniversary of the Easter Rising. As the new year dawned, a veritable avalanche of radio and television programmes, lectures, books, plays, poems, and ballads about 1916 began to roll across Ireland.
In February commemorative souvenirs of the Rising began to appear in the shops. Barry's first purchase was a strikingly designed badge. Against a background of green, white and orange, Pádraic Pearse in Volunteer uniform stood in front of the GPO.
I was born forty years too late,
Barry thought as he pinned the badge to his coat.
The war's over and we didn't win.
Barry thought as he pinned the badge to his coat.
The war's over and we didn't win.
That evening he called in to the Oval Bar in Middle Abbey Street, favourite watering hole of many Dublin journalists, for a hot whiskey. The pub was abuzz with talk about the upcoming celebrations. It sounded as if they were going to be a combination of the Fourth of July and Bastille Day, with the added attraction that some of the participants were still alive.
“How will you celebrate the jubilee, Lily?” a man at the next table asked the woman beside him. Barry had noticed her when he came in; a handsome, dark-haired woman with roving eyes.
“I'll tell you what I'd like to do,” she said. “Out there in the middle of O'Connell Street, Admiral High-and-Mighty Nelson is still lording it over us. I'd knock him if I could. Blow him to smithereens!”
Her companion brayed with laughter.
Barry put down his drink.
The laughter swelled into a wave. Others joined in. “Knock the Pillar!” “Down with the admiral!”
Do it do it do it do it do it!
Barry stood up and left the bar.
“Please join me in Dublin for a picnic,” he wrote to Séamus McCoy. “If you can persuade our friend Mickey from Limerick to come with you, so much the better. Ask him to bring some of that good jelly his wife makes, for the sandwiches.”
Two days later Séamus McCoy arrived on Barry's doorstep with Mickey in tow. The Limerick man was carrying a suitcase. “I brought jelly for the picnic,” he said.
“Good on you! How much?”
“There's enough gelignite in here to blow open a bank vault.”
“Nobody has a picnic in a bank vault, Mickey. This party's going to be in the middle of O'Connell Street.”
Séamus McCoy gave a low whistle. “You're coming out of retirement in a big way, Seventeen.”
“One performance only, and I'll need some help. I want to
blow up Nelson's Pillar ⦔ Barry paused and took a deep breath, “without damaging anything else.”
blow up Nelson's Pillar ⦔ Barry paused and took a deep breath, “without damaging anything else.”
Mickey's jaw dropped. “You're daft.”
“It can't be done,” McCoy said flatly. “The Pillar's smack in the middle of the busiest street in Dublin, with buildings on all sides.”
“There has to be a way, Séamus, and I'll tell you why. In 1916 British artillery demolished the centre of Dublin. I want to destroy nothing but the symbol they left behind. We must prove we're better than they were.”
“You really mean to do this?”
“I really mean to.”
McCoy turned to Mickey. “Is what he's suggesting remotely possible?”
“I can't say until I've had a look at the problem, but for a good engineer anything's possible, I suppose.”
“Well then, let's do a reccy.”
Barry gave McCoy a grateful smile.
The three men walked at a brisk pace from Harold's Cross to OâConnell Bridge, then slowed to a stroll. They paused frequently to admire the merchandise in shop windows in O'Connell Street, and debated the merits of various publications before buying an out-of-town newspaper at a kiosk. In this leisurely fashion, they at last came to the Pillar. As usual, there was a queue of people waiting for admission to the observation platform.
Barry and Séamus McCoy went into the GPO and bought postage stamps. When they came out they blended into the group of Dublin regulars who habitually lounged under the portico, commenting on everyone and everything that passed. McCoy lit a cigarette. Barry opened the newspaper he was carrying.
But though he scanned the
Cork Examiner
with a practiced eye, as usual there was no mention of anyone called Claire MacNamara.
Cork Examiner
with a practiced eye, as usual there was no mention of anyone called Claire MacNamara.
Meanwhile, Mickey, gawking like a tourist, walked several times around the Pillar before stopping to chat with the guard at the entrance porch. The guard felt a proprietary interest in the monument and was happy to tell him all about it. He asked if Mickey wanted to buy a ticket for the observation platform. The
Limerick man shook his head. “Afraid of heights, me. But I have to have something to tell the children. Just let me look in the door; seeing the inside of the column'll do me.”
Limerick man shook his head. “Afraid of heights, me. But I have to have something to tell the children. Just let me look in the door; seeing the inside of the column'll do me.”
“I can't charge you for that,” the guard said with a laugh. “Look all you like, then take home this little pamphlet about the Pillar for your family. They don't need to know you never made it to the top. It'll be our little secret.”
Thanking the guard, Mickey put the small folder in his pocket. He ambled over to a fruit stand and bought an orange wrapped in tissue paper. After exchanging comments on the weather with the fruit vendor, he headed for the GPO, peeling the fruit as he walked. His mutilated hand was awkward; orange juice ran down his wrist and soaked his sleeve.
“There are several problems here, all difficult,” Mickey said when they were back in Harold's Cross. “My first thought was to plant a bomb inside the column, but we can't because there's absolutely nothing in that shaft but smooth stone walls and the staircase. People going up the steps would notice any kind of foreign object attached to the walls.
“So the bomb has to be on the outsideâbut how do we place it without getting caught? That's a damned public location, you know. Then there's the question of just how much explosive we'd need to bring the Pillar down. Should it be powerful enough to include the base too? That's like a big stone tomb itself. As for avoiding any other damage ⦔ He spread his hands palms-up in a tacit admission of defeat.
“Go on,” said Barry. His face was expressionless but there was command in his voice.
Mickey sighed. “An explosive charge should be tailored for the object you want to blow up. But the statue and the column are made of different materials. Nelson and his plinth are carved of Portland stone. And plastered with bird shit, according to the guard. As for the column, people think it's Wicklow granite but it's actually only black limestone sheathed in granite.”
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Barry looked thoughtful. “Would there be a join between the statue and the column?”
“A join?”
“Like a seam.”
“Has to be.”
Suddenly Barry leaned forward, his whole body electric with excitement. “Suppose we have two explosions in quick succession near the top of the Pillar. An initial blast to jolt the statue loose, followed by a larger one embedded in the column. We'll want a five-second delay on the second detonator and ⦔
“I don't understand,” said McCoy.
But Mickey did. “That's brilliant! Because the statue's so much higher than anything else in the street, if it's not blocking the way ⦔
“The main explosion will go upwards as well as outwards,” Barry finished. “It should demolish a large part of the column without touching the nearest buildings. And if we set off our bomb in the wee small hours we won't injure anyone, either. Except the hero of Trafalgar. We'll finish him once and for all.” His voice was gleeful.
“Damn,” McCoy breathed almost reverently. “Damn!”
Mickey was beginning to warm to the possibility. “If we can get it placed rightâand that's a big âif'âgelignite would take care of the column. But for his lordship we'd want a lifting explosive, something like ammonol. You ever hear of it, Séamus? It's a mixture of TNT, ammonium nitrate, and aluminium powder.”
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