Strumpet City (64 page)

‘We’ll move off in fifteen minutes,’ Mathews decided, ‘get everything ready.’

They began their final preparations.

When Hennessy caught up with Rashers the incident with Father O’Connor was still weighing on his mind.

‘What did you want to speak to him like that for?’

‘Why shouldn’t I?’ Rashers answered.

‘Because there’s no luck will come of it—that’s why.’

‘I haven’t noticed much of that commodity lately anyway,’ Rasher said.

‘Things is deplorable,’ Hennessy agreed, ‘but why make them worse by insulting the clergy?’

‘To hell with the clergy.’

‘Are you not afraid he might turn you into a goat?’

‘I wish to God he would,’ Rashers said.

‘You have the beard for it anyway,’ Hennessy decided, after scrutinising him sideways.

‘I have. And what’s more, enough spirit to puck Father O’Connor in the arse,’ Rashers answered. His good humour returned. But only for a while. He was not a goat. It was highly unlikely he ever would be. He was simply a man without employment, without health, without a friend of substance to turn to in his native city. That was the sum total of the matter.

‘What the hell are we to do?’ he asked.

Hennessy had no ideas. Except to walk about and keep their eyes and ears open, to let the mind imagine possibilities, to fasten the attention on the moment and not to try to look too far ahead. His eyes, searching along the footpath, fixed on something.

‘Here’s a sizeable butt we can share,’ he said, stooping to pick it up. They examined it together. It was a long one.

‘God bless your eyesight,’ Rashers said. ‘I’d have missed that.’

They had no matches. Hennessy, storing it away for later, suggested doing the round of the public houses to see if a porter’s job might be going, or some work washing bottles. They passed the queue of children waiting outside Tara Street Baths to be scrubbed and fitted out with clean clothes. It engaged them for twenty minutes or so. Half-heartedly they went on with their search. They had no luck, but they continued to wander the streets.

‘Did you hear Mrs. Bartley and the family is going to America?’ Hennessy asked.

‘I did,’ Rashers said.

‘A brother of hers did well out there and sent her over the fare.’

‘She’s a woman was always good to me,’ Rashers said, ‘and I wish her the height of luck. I’m going to miss her.’

They begged a match from a passer-by and stopped to light the butt Hennessy had found. They leaned on the wall of the river, sharing it puff for puff. Hennessy remarked the procession of cabs on the opposite bank. Rashers was unable to see that far.

‘It’s the demonstrators,’ Hennessy told him, ‘the crowd that want the children kept in Ireland.’ He became conversational.

‘Supposing we were chislers again,’ he said, ‘being cleaned up and dressed in decent clothes and sent off to England to be looked after. We’d have no troubles then.’

Regretfully Rashers passed back the butt. There was about as much chance of becoming chislers again as there was of being turned into a goat. Hennessy’s vein of fantasy was beginning to irritate him.

‘We’d make a hairy pair of chislers,’ he told him.

The children walked in pairs with Mathews leading. He held his stick under his arm and strode purposefully. Yearling kept to the side. His job was simply to see they did not step out under the traffic. Three other men followed behind him and two more took up the rear. Yearling had counted thirty children at the beginning of their journey and threw his eyes over them at intervals during their march to count them all over again. Although nothing much was expected of him, he felt anxious and responsible. The little girl who had recited the street rhyme was talking to the child beside her, unconscious of any tension. If they attempted to use her roughly, Yearling decided, he would take a chance on violence himself.

At the Embarkation sheds they found a cordon of police waiting for them. Behind the police the demonstrators had spread out in a line across the road. Traffic was being held up and searched. There were hundreds of them. The contingent that followed the decoy had been easily spared.

Warning the children to behave, he went up front to Mathews.

‘It looks rather bad,’ he suggested, ‘do you think we should proceed?’

‘Personally, I intend to.’

‘Oh. Very well.’

‘But there’s no obligation of any kind on you.’

‘My dear Mathews,’ Yearling said, ‘please lead on.’

‘You’re quite sure?’

‘Glory or the grave.’

They moved again. Yearling kept to the steady pace set by Mathews. The police parted to allow them through. Then they came up against the front ranks of their opponents, were forced to a stop and quickly surrounded. Yearling, doing his best to shield the children, was aware not of individuals but of bowler hats and moustaches in unidentifiable multitudes. Bodies pressed about him and exhaled their animal heat. The priest in charge made his slow passage towards them. He was red-faced and trembling with excitement.

‘Who is in charge of these children?’ he demanded. Mathews stepped forward.

‘I am,’ he said.

‘And where are you taking them?’

‘You know very well where I’m taking them,’ Mathews said.

‘I know where you would wish to take them,’ the priest said, ‘but we are here to prevent it.’

‘By what right?’

‘By God’s right,’ the priest shouted at him. There was an angry movement. The slogans were raised and began to wave wildly. ‘Proselytisers,’ ‘Save the Children.’ Someone bawled in Yearling’s ear: ‘Kidnapper Larkin.’

‘I am not Mr. Larkin,’ he said.

‘You’re one of his tools,’ the voice said. ‘You’re all his henchmen.’

A loud cheering distracted him and he looked around. The cabs which had set out earlier for Kingsbridge were returning. They cantered in single file along the quay, their banners waving in response to those surrounding the children. At a distance behind them a group of Larkinites from Liberty Hall followed. Yearling saw the police parting to let the cabs through, then closing ranks again against the Larkinites. The situation was becoming explosive. He said so to Mathews.

‘These children will get hurt.’

‘Hold steady,’ Mathews said.

They both watched the Larkinites, who had now reached the police cordon and were parleying. An Inspector waved them back but it had no effect. The crowd about Yearling began to sing ‘Faith of our Fathers’ once again. Almost immediately the battle between the Larkinites and the police began. The priest became excited once more.

‘I command you to hand over these children,’ he said to Mathews.

‘Have the parents of Dublin no longer any rights?’ Mathews asked.

‘If you persist in refusing, I’ll not be responsible for what happens.’

‘But of course you’ll be responsible,’ Mathews said, ‘and if they suffer hurt it will be your responsibility also.’

‘Seize the children,’ the priest shouted to his followers.

Father O’Connor, dismounting from one of the cabs, saw the mêlée about the party of children but failed to distinguish the figure of Yearling. When his attention switched to the police he found the Larkinites were breaking through. He gathered his contingent about him and began to shout instructions at them.

‘Stand firm men,’ he ordered. ‘Stand firm for God and His Holy Faith.’

As the Larkinites broke through the police guard he mounted the footstep of one of the cabs and waved his broken umbrella above their heads. All about him bodies heaved and tossed. Police and people struggled in several groups. He stood clear of the fighting himself but kept up a flow of encouragement for his followers. He felt no shame or hesitation. This was a battle for God.

Hands seized Yearling and pulled him away from the children he was escorting. He saw Mathews some yards ahead of him being manhandled in the same way.

‘Damn you for zealots,’ he shouted and began to fight back. The fury of his counter attack drove them back momentarily, but they were too many for him. They crowded about him on every side. Hands tore the lapels of his jacket, his shirt, his trouser legs. He lashed out blindly all the time until at last, exhausted, he fell to the ground. Mathews and the other men and the children had disappeared. He was alone in a circle of demonstrators. He felt blood in his mouth, explored delicately and discovered a broken tooth. Blood was running down from his forehead also, blinding one eye. He found his pocket handkerchief and tried to staunch it. He had no fear now of the faces leaning over him. A wild anger exhilarated him.

‘Damn you for ignorant bigots,’ he shouted at them, ‘damn you for a crowd of cowardly obscurantists.’

Father O’Connor saw the police gaining control once more. The Larkinites were driven back up the quays, his own followers regrouped and began to cheer. To his left he saw the priest from Donnybrook leading the children away. The demonstrators were grouped solidly about them. He got down from the footstep and went over.

‘We succeeded,’ the priest said to him.

‘Thanks be to God,’ he answered. He searched the faces as the children passed but could find none that answered to his memory of the Fitzpatricks. For the moment at any rate they were safe. He thanked God for that too and began to push through the crowd. They gave him passage and he acknowledged grimly.

‘Who have we over there?’ he asked, his attention caught by a dense ring of men.

‘One of the kidnappers,’ a man told him. He pushed his way into the centre and recognised their prisoner with horror.

‘Yearling,’ he said.

Yearling had difficulty in seeing him. The blood was still blinding his right eye. He dabbed again with the handkerchief and realised who it was.

‘My poor fellow,’ Father O’Connor said, ‘let me help you.’

‘Call off your hymn howling blackguards,’ Yearling demanded.

Father O’Connor motioned the crowd back.

‘Let me take you home at once,’ he offered, ‘I have a cab just across the road.’

‘No,’ Yearling said, ‘I intend to walk to a cab myself.’

‘You’re in no condition.’

‘I am in excellent condition,’ Yearling assured him, ‘let the city look at your handiwork.’

‘Please,’ Father O’Connor begged, ‘let me help you.’

‘I don’t need it.’

Yearling raised himself to his feet and tried to arrange his torn clothes. He had the appearance of a bloodied scarecrow. Father O’Connor offered his hand in assistance but Yearling stepped away. He stared at Father O’Connor.

‘I see you’ve been on active service,’ he remarked.

Father O’Connor, following Yearling’s eyes, found they were fixed on his umbrella and remembered its broken handle.

‘You misunderstand completely,’ he said, ‘let me explain.’

‘You have been beating some unfortunate about the head, I suppose,’ Yearling said. ‘Do you regret it wasn’t me?’

‘Yearling, please. This is dreadful. You must listen to me.’

But Yearling turned his back. He began to limp his way towards Liberty Hall.

‘Don’t interfere with him,’ Father O’Connor said to those around him. ‘Please don’t interfere with him in any way. Let him pass.’

He began to cry.

‘Let him pass,’ he repeated.

The priest from Donnybrook marked the occasion with an address to his followers. He reminded them that the demonstration had been unorganised and unprepared. ‘It shows the love you have for the Catholic children of this city,’ he told them. The great crowd cheered him. Then they formed in processional order and marched bareheaded through the streets, singing ‘Hail, Glorious St. Patrick’. Rashers and Hennessy watched them passing and saw Father O’Connor marching with them. They looked at each other silently.

Father O’Connor tried to join in the singing but found his thoughts pulled elsewhere. He had lost a friend for the sake of the children. He was prepared to sacrifice more. But it was hard. He offered to God the ache in his heart, the humiliation which made his cheeks burn. He offered to God also the coming loneliness and isolation.

The newspapers carried another letter from the Archbishop. It read:

Archbishop’s House

Dublin

28th October 1912

Very Reverend and Dear Father,

In view of the exceptional distress resulting from the long continued and widespread deadlock in the industries of Dublin, more especially in some of those parishes that are least able from their own unaided resources to meet so grave an emergency, it occurs to me that the case is one calling for an exceptional remedy.

The children, innocent victims of the conflict, have a special claim upon us, and I think the best way of helping them is to strengthen the funds by means of which food and clothing is provided for the thousands of school going children who, even in the best of times, are in need of such assistance. Those funds, fairly adequate in ordinary times, have now been subjected to an excessive strain. In a number of cases they are practically exhausted. As usual in times of distress, the proselytisers are energetically active. If they are to be effectively combated, it must be by a combined effort, each of us doing what he can to help the poor in their hard struggle.

Although no public appeal has as yet been made, I am already in receipt of a number of subscriptions, from £25 down to 2s. 6d., sent to me by generous sympathisers, rich and poor, in England and Scotland.

It would be strange, then, if an opportunity were not afforded to the people of our own diocese to give practical expression to the sympathy which they must feel with the children suffering from hunger and from cold.

I am, therefore, asking the Parish Priests and Parochial Administrators of the various parishes, and also the heads of religious communities in charge of public churches in the diocese, to arrange for a special collection to be held in their Churches on next Sunday in aid of the fund that is now being raised.

A small Committee, consisting of some of the city clergy and some members of the St. Vincent de Paul Association, will take charge of the collection of the fund, and the distribution of it in the parishes where it is needed will be in the hands of the local clergy and of the local Conferences of the Association of St. Vincent de Paul.