Strumpet City

CHAPTER NINE

Father O’Connor, having fortified himself with a substantial lunch against a day that he felt was going to be exacting and distasteful, went out into the streets of Dublin to do battle for God. He had rehearsed his motives meticulously to make certain they were sincere. They were. Catholic souls needed his intervention. Although the children of his parish might be of little consequence to the world they lived in: lowliest of the lowly born, illiterate, ill-used even, each was as precious to God and had as much right to salvation as the highest and noblest in the land. In that belief he would play his priestly part. He regretted only that Father O’Sullivan had not seen fit to join him.

Proselytism was rife. He had known cases of it personally, where families attended bible-readings because soup and bread were given in return. One child had told him of being enticed into the house of a lady who had the servants put him in a bath and scrub him with carbolic soap before feeding him and handing him tracts which, fortunately, the child could not read. Perhaps God had His own purpose in the general illiteracy of the poor. A more experienced colleague had made that shrewd observation to him. Father Giffley wouldn’t listen to stories of that kind. But then Father Giffley was in the grip of an addiction which had already gone far towards unbalancing his mind. These people had money and leisure. They had even learned the Irish language to spread their heresies among the peasantry in the remote wildernesses of Connemara. During his novitiate a friend had shown him one of their bibles in the Irish language.

His first call would be on Mrs. Fitzpatrick. If it were true that she intended to send her children away he must take every step to dissuade her. She had been trained in a good house and was intelligent enough to understand the harm that must follow. Through the kindness of Mrs. Bradshaw she had had plenty to be grateful to God for. Would she repay the debt in this way? That was the question to put to her. His line of approach was clear.

The next thing was to remember where she lived; not the house, which he knew fairly well, but the particular room. He did not want his presence to be known to everybody. That would be indiscreet, even unjust.

He picked his way through streets which were threatened with an assault against the Motherhood of the Church and citizens who by and large did not seem particularly to care. They pursued their own lives and bent their thoughts to their own narrow affairs. They raised their hats briefly to him as they passed him on the pathways. They held up public house corners and spat at intervals to pass the time. They thronged the shops and carefully counted their change. And every so often a tram passed guarded by police, or a convoy of lorries guarded by police, or simply a cordon of police on the way to guard something not as yet equipped with the protection applied for. That was the pass the city had come to: hatred, strife, hunger, ambush, disobedience.

There were men now who made violence their everyday concern. They planned assaults on the police and attacked those who were replacing them at their work. In the county of Dublin farm labourers who had been locked out were burning outhouses, spiking fields, maiming cattle and forcing the farmers who had once employed them to go about armed. The socialists were the instigators, but the masters themselves were not without blame. They had been wanting in justice and, above all, in charity. He had told them so from the pulpit before he left Kingstown, warning them that Christ Himself had said He would not be found in the courts of Kings, where men were clothed in soft garments, but in the desert. The slums about him were the desert. Among the poor who inhabited them must Christ be sought out. That was where the masters had failed. And because of that failure the devil had now taken possession.

His parish engulfed him, spinning its web about him of malodorous hallways, decaying houses, lines of ragged washing. His work had not been very fruitful. He had failed to learn how to love them as brothers and sisters. But he could love them as a father by instructing them and protecting them against temptation and weakness. At least he had walked their grim streets and entered their unsavoury rooms. In time he would learn to communicate with them.

Chandlers Court acknowledged his presence. Here and there a head appeared at a window; the children stopped their play to stare at him; one or two men saluted him. He stood still, recollecting. Number 3? While he tried precisely to remember, two figures whom he recognised emerged from a hallway. One was the scarecrow of a man he had had to dismiss from the post of boilerman. He felt reluctant to approach him. They came nearer to him. Tierney, that was the name. Father O’Connor, detecting pride in his attitude towards a poor, crippled oddity, put himself to the test. He waited, his stance one of enquiry and irresolution, until they came near him.

‘Good evening, men,’ he said.

Hennessy raised his hat and said, ‘God Bless you, Father.’ Rashers said nothing.

‘Tierney, my man,’ Father O’Connor said, ‘I would like you to show me to the room in which Mrs. Fitzpatrick lives—if you can spare the time.’

‘I can do that, Father, Hennessy volunteered.

‘Just a minute,’ Rashers said, ‘I’m the one that was asked.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Hennessy said.

‘And I’d like to tell Father O’Connor what he can do,’ Rashers continued.

Hennessy looked at his face and became alarmed.

‘Now, now, Rashers,’ he pleaded. He put his hand on Rashers’ arm.

‘Shut up,’ Rashers said. He turned his attention to Father O’Connor. He leaned forward on his stick to be closer to him.

‘That’s the first civil question you’ve addressed to me in a number of years, Father,’ he said, ‘and I’m not going to answer you. But I’ll give Hennessy here a message he can deliver to you.’

‘Now, now,’ Hennessy implored. ‘Remember Father O’Connor is one of God’s holy anointed.’

‘He is indeed,’ Rashers agreed, ‘and I’ll tell you what to answer him on my behalf, because I wouldn’t insult one of his cloth up to his face.’

Rashers looked back at Father O’Connor.

‘So you can give the Reverend Gentleman this message from Rashers Tierney. Tell him to ask my proletarian arse.’

He turned and hobbled away. When Hennessy found his voice he said: ‘For God’s sake, Father, don’t pay any heed to him or take any offence at all.’

‘I am not offended,’ Father O’Connor said quietly.

‘The poor man has been out of his wits this long time.’

‘I am not angry,’ Father O’Connor said. His face was white.

‘Then let me do what little I can by showing you the Fitzpatrick’s apartment,’ Hennessy offered.

Father O’Connor kept his voice under control.

‘Thank you,’ he said. He followed Hennessy, who continued to apologise. Father O’Connor made short but quiet replies to all he said. The insult had found its way to his stomach. He felt chilled.

‘Do you intend to drive all the way?’ Mathews asked. He was uneasy.

‘I have been wondering should I,’ Yearling answered.

‘Not quite to the hall door, perhaps.’

‘A bit ostentatious, you think?’

‘Well . . . Better not.’

‘Pity. If I had thought of it, we could have rigged up a Red Flag on the bonnet.’

‘Just as well you didn’t.’

Yearling looked disappointed. ‘For a poet,’ he said, ‘you lack a taste for the dramatic. Shelley scattered pamphlets on the heads of passers-by from his lodgings in Grafton Street.’

‘The pamphlets were in support of Catholic Emancipation.’

‘Oh—that’s rather different.’

‘In fact he later gave great offence in his speech to the Friends of Catholic Emancipation by arguing that one religion was as good as another. Both Catholics and Protestants were outraged.’

‘Quite understandable,’ Yearling said. ‘To be persecuted by a fellow-Christian is understandable. To be liberated at the hands of an agnostic, unbearable. I think I’ll park here.’

They stopped near St. Brigid’s.

‘Do you plan to pick up the children at Liberty Hall?’

‘Yes.’

‘Have we time for a drink?’

‘Plenty,’ Mathews said. But when they were ordering he would only take a ginger beer.

‘A hint of alcohol on the breath and Larkin would ask me to go home,’ he explained.

‘Oh—and what about me?’

‘Perfectly all right,’ Mathews said, ‘the children won’t be in your charge.’

‘You sound smug, Mathews.’

‘To tell the truth, I’m just a bit frightened,’ Mathews answered.

They strolled down to the North Wall. A large crowd had gathered at the Embarkation sheds, respectably dressed men and some women too, with a sprinkling of priests. Their banners read: ‘Kidnapper Larkin’: ‘Save the Children’: ‘Away with Socialism’. When a car approached they spread across the road and stopped it. They questioned the driver and searched inside before letting him drive on, then grimly resumed their watch for God. One of the priests moved constantly from group to group, a purposeful man with a heavy face.

‘That reverend gentleman is Father Farrell of Donnybrook,’ Mathews remarked, ‘an actionist if ever there was one. Yesterday the children were seized when they tried to board the mail boat at Kingstown. In fact some of the children were with perfectly respectable parents who had a deal of trouble getting them back into their custody. I’m told that one lady was obliged to open her box to show her marriage certificate.’

Yearling had read of these things and found them rich in human absurdity. Now he looked at the reality. It was shoddy. It was worse. It was unbelievably ugly. He took Mathews by the arm and both turned away.

‘Let us get on to Liberty Hall,’ he suggested. Humour had deserted him.

Father O’Connor climbed the stairs and knocked on the door Hennessy pointed out to him. He waited. At first Hennessy’s footsteps, sounding on the stairs, filled the house with noise. When they had receded Father O’Connor became conscious of great stillness. There were children’s voices somewhere above him, but at a great distance it seemed, so faint and intermittent that they made the stillness about him hard to endure. He knocked a second time and knew from the sound that the room was empty. Was he too late? The thought that the Fitzpatrick children might be on their way to the boat already, alarmed him. He began knocking again, his time with his umbrella, with such force that the handle broke off. It rebounded off the door and made a clattering noise on the wooden floor. The sound brought him to his senses. He must control himself and think. As he searched in the half-light to recover the handle of his umbrella a door on the other side of the landing opened and an elderly woman came out. She was frightened until she recognised him.

‘It’s yourself, Father,’ she said, reassured. He searched for the handle and found it before answering her.

‘Who have I here?’ he asked.

‘I’m Mrs. Mulhall, Father,’ she said. He peered at her.

‘Ah yes—of course.’ He remembered her now as the woman whose husband had recently died. She might be able to give him the information he was looking for. He stuffed the umbrella handle into his pocket and said: ‘I’d like to have a word with you, if I may—immediately.’

‘Certainly, Father.’

She led him into a room in which upturned boxes were serving as table and chairs. The linoleum showed unworn and unfaded patches here and there in places once occupied by furniture. An easy chair at the fireside stood out in incongruous luxury. She dusted this and offered it to him. He sat down. She was, he remembered, a good and devout woman. Father O’Sullivan had spoken most highly of her. The death of her husband must have been a cruel blow. He would have to refer to it. Presently.

She sat on one of the boxes opposite him and he found an opening.

‘You are going through hard times,’ he said, looking about at the evidence of the room.

‘We’re all having the bad times, Father,’ she answered. Although he was agitated he found time to have pity for her, an ageing woman sitting on a box in a home without a fire. Whoever might be responsible for the evils of the times, it was not she. Exercising patience, he said:

‘Your husband’s death was a sad blow, I’m sure.’

‘It was at first, Father, but now I’m happy God took him when He did. He was lying there all those months breaking his heart because he couldn’t be out and about with the rest of the men.’

‘You are very brave.’

‘If nothing could ever give him his two legs back to him, why should I wish God to keep him lying there fretting and suffering.’

Father O’Connor nodded. He remembered more precisely now. They were speaking of the man who had assaulted Timothy Keever and whose conduct he had deplored from the pulpit. The woman was not embarrassed. Father O’Sullivan, no doubt, had made it his business to reassure her in her time of trouble. It was a gift which most puzzled him in that humble and otherwise very ordinary priest. ‘Your resignation is a great credit to you,’ he said. ‘It is indeed.’

‘God was good to me,’ she answered, ‘and I had the kindest of neighbours.’

He could now move nearer to the enquiry he wished to make.

‘One of your neighbours is Mrs. Fitzpatrick—isn’t she?’

‘The kindest and best of them.’

This made it more difficult. He deliberated.

‘You have a very high regard for her—I can see.’

‘With good reason, Father.’

‘Then if I tell you I’m here to help her and to persuade her against making a very grave mistake, you’ll assist me?’ The woman hesitated. He sensed her uneasiness. Conscious suddenly of his own isolation in this poverty-haunted parish, he set his will to the duty before him.

‘You must trust me,’ he urged.

‘I was never much hand at meddling in another’s affairs.’

‘Sometimes it becomes our duty,’ he told her, ‘I’m sure you’ll understand when I explain to you.’

She nodded. He took up the umbrella to lean forward on it and rediscovered its lack of a handle. That upset him. He pushed it aside.

‘You know that there is an attempt at the moment to send children to England. And you know, I am sure, that the Archbishop himself has written to deplore it. God knows what sort of homes these children will end up in; Protestant homes, for all we know—or homes of no religion at all. I am told that Mrs. Fitzpatrick intends to let her children go. And I want to persuade her to remember her Catholic duty.’

‘Who told you that, Father?’

‘I am not at liberty to say. But it is a person I place trust in. Have you any knowledge of it?’

‘I know it couldn’t be true, Father. I’m the closest to her in things of that kind, and I’ve watched the children for her many a time. If the thought had ever entered her head, I’d know it.’

‘Where is she now?’

‘She’s out walking with her children, a thing she always does when the afternoon is fine.’

‘Did she ever speak to you of sending her children away?’

‘She did, several weeks ago. But it was to her father in the country she was thinking of sending them.’

‘I see,’ Father O’Connor said. The woman was very sure of herself. He knew she was telling what she believed was the truth.

‘Did she say this to anyone else?’

‘She may have, Father, but not to my knowledge.’ A thought occurred to him which he knew he must express delicately. He found it hard to spare the time to do so. The children might at that moment be on their way.

‘Times have been so very hard with all of you,’ he suggested. ‘Could it be that she intended to send them to her parents if the necessity arose, but found when the time came that she could no longer afford to do so?’

The woman hesitated again. It took her some time to answer.

‘It could have happened that way,’ she said at last. She appeared upset. He felt he was near the truth.

‘In that case, she might well have been tempted to take part in this Larkinite scheme instead.’

The woman began to cry.

‘Please don’t be upset,’ he said. ‘I have to say such things because of what is at stake. Do you know if she had money to send them to her parents?’

‘She had indeed, Father . . . but she gave it to me.’

The woman was weeping bitterly now. Suspicion of the cause made him rise and go to her. She was not telling him all she knew.

‘Are you holding something back?’ he asked. ‘If so, I command you as your priest to let me know the truth. Is she taking part in the scheme?’

‘No, Father, I’m certain of it.’

‘We cannot be certain.’

‘She’d have told me.’

‘She might not. Why did she give you the money?’

He was now standing over Mrs. Mulhall. Suspicion and anxiety had swamped his pity. She turned her head away from him.

‘When my husband died I had no money in the world. She gave me hers.’

‘Why?’

The woman struggled to answer. He repeated himself.

‘Why?’

‘So that I could bury him with decency,’ she said.

The reply took him by surprise. He understood now why his questions had upset her. But the fact remained that he could still not be sure that the scheme was not the desperate alternative.

‘What she did was edifying and Christian,’ he said, ‘but if it has led her to such despair that she has allowed her children to be taken away from her, then it would have been better for all of us if she had kept her money.’

The woman’s sobbing became uncontrollable. He took the broken umbrella under his arm.

‘Forgive me for the upset I have caused you,’ he said. He went to the door. What he had said struck him as bald and unpitying. He had not meant it that way.

‘Please don’t feel I am too harsh,’ he added. ‘The fate of these little children is an urgent and terrible charge on all of us.’

He closed the door and strode across the landing to knock once again at the Fitzpatrick’s apartment. There was still no answer. Enough time had been lost already. He went down quickly into the street.

Merchandise cluttered the South Wall of the river. At the berth of the one shipping company which had remained open by refusing to join the Employers’ Federation a single ship was working. To the right and left of it idle ships waited through flood tide and ebb tide. Larkin had said they would be left there until the bottoms were rusted out of them. Across the river, about the Embarkation sheds of the North Wall, crowds had gathered. Father O’Connor made for Butt Bridge. There were crowds at Liberty Hall also, he noticed. If there was to be a battle for the children, his help would be even more important. No room for shirkers now.

He reached the demonstrators excited and out of breath. Their numbers reassured him, their banners roused his admiration. He sought out the priest who was obviously in command.

‘Good evening, Father,’ he said. ‘I’m Father O’Connor of St. Brigid’s.’

‘A parish in which there has been a lot of activity,’ the other said. ‘Your assistance will be most welcome to us.’ They shook hands.

‘How can I help?’

‘By keeping your eyes open. You may recognise some of the parish children. Or their parents may be known to you. Your presence in itself will be an invaluable addition.’

‘What can I do?’

‘I’d like a priest with each lay contingent. It reassures them. You could take charge of the group over there. Come and I’ll introduce you.’

They went over together to some twenty men, members of a Branch of the Ancient Order of Hibernians. He was asked to assist them by scrutinising any children who might arrive as passengers. There was little conversation. After a polite exchange the leader turned to the others and said:

‘Now, men—a hymn while we’re waiting. Let’s have “Faith of our Fathers”. All together—One . . . two . . . three.’ They assumed grave expressions and lifted their voices in unison.

‘Faith of our Fathers living still

In spite of dungeon, fire and sword

Oh, how our hearts beat high with joy

When e’er we hear that glorious word

Faith of our Fathers, holy faith,

We will be true to thee till death

We will be true to thee till death.’

The gulls rose in alarm from roofs and the rigging of ships, and the other groups, as the voices rebounded off corrugated iron sheds and the walls of warehouses, took fire and joined in, swelling the sound of the second verse.

‘Faith of our Fathers, guile and force

To do thee bitter wrong unite,

But Erin’s saints shall fight for us

And keep undimmed thy blessed light

Faith of our Fathers, holy faith

We will be true to thee till death

We will be true to thee till death.’

The hooter of the one ship that was working across the river at the South Wall gave a long wail which swamped the voices and for a moment shattered all tonality. Its echo ran the length of the river, a groan of anguish which surged past Ringsend and the empty marshalling yards, spreading between the strands of Dollymount and the Shellybanks and Merrion, until it passed the estuary and became a ghost above the lonely lightships far out in the Irish Sea. Father O’Connor, unused to the procedures of the riverside, felt the sudden anger that mounted in the groups about him and wondered if it had been blown derisively.

There was the usual queue at the soup kitchen. Yearling spared the waiting women a glance, noting the jamjars and bottles and tin cans in their hands, then followed Mathews through the door of Liberty Hall and up the stairs to the second floor. It was dirty. The mud of countless feet had dried on the wooden stairway and on the landing. It smelled of people. Poverty, he had noticed before, had its own peculiar smell. A man’s station could be judged by what the body exhaled. Expensive odours of brandy and cigars; sour odours of those who nourished nature with condensed milk and tea. In an outer room were two men he recognised. One Orpen the painter, whom he knew well; the other Sinclair, an art dealer, who was said to love the fine things in his shop so much that he was constantly refusing to sell them.

Mathews excused himself and went into the inner office. Yearling approached Orpen.

‘My dear Orpen, what are you doing here?’

‘Some sketches,’ Orpen said. ‘Have you been to the food kitchens?’

‘No,’ Yearling confessed, ‘this is my first visit.’

‘Then let me show you these.’

Yearling examined cartoons of faces and figures. They wore skull-like heads and raised skeleton arms towards a woman who was ladling out soup.

‘How do you find them?’ Orpen asked.

‘Depressing.’

‘You should see the reality.’

‘Do you come here a lot?’

‘Every other day. One meets everybody here.’

‘So I gather,’ Yearling agreed. ‘I read a suggestion in The Leader that there should be a branch for intellectuals in Liberty Hall.’

‘Larkin is working night and day,’ Orpen said. ‘He expects to be summoned before the court any day now to answer a charge of sedition. They’re bound to convict him.’

Mathews returned to the room and joined them.

‘The children are on the next floor. Will you come up?’ Yearling followed him. The air was pungent with the smell from the cauldrons in the basement. They entered a room where about twenty children were being prepared for their journey. Some women were helping them to food. There were two men among them whom Mathews consulted.

‘There are pickets on the North Wall,’ he said, ‘there isn’t a hope of getting through if they are determined about stopping us. We’ve got to distract their attention by sending some of the children to Kingsbridge Station. The plan is to give them time to follow. Then we rush the rest of the children to the North Wall and try to get them aboard while the way is clear.’

‘I don’t think it will work,’ one of the men said, ‘there are thousands of them.’

‘Are you willing to try?’ Mathews asked.

‘Of course,’ the man answered.

‘So am I,’ Mathews told him. He looked at his watch.

‘If you will take the decoy party now,’ he suggested, ‘I’ll go with the others in an hour’s time. Later on your group can go by train from Amiens Street to Belfast and we’ll ship them out that way.’

‘You’ll need help,’ the man said. ‘Skeffington here could go along with you. The trouble is he’s a pacifist and not much good in a fight. He just stands still and lets them hammer him.’

Skeffington smiled.

‘Perhaps your friend . . . ?’ the man suggested.

‘Strictly a non-combatant,’ Mathews said.

They all looked at Yearling.

‘Not now,’ Yearling said. ‘I’ll go with you, Mathews.’

‘Good for you,’ Mathews said.

The children who were to act as a decoy were got ready. Yearling recognised one of them, a little girl. He went over and crouched to talk to her.

‘And how is Mary Murphy?’ he asked. ‘And is she still washing her clothes? And did she marry her sweetheart after all?’

The child became shy.

‘I don’t know, sir.’

‘Tell me another of your songs,’ he said.

‘What one?’

‘Any one,’ he invited. The child considered. Then she said:

‘“Applejelly lemon a pear”?’

‘That’ll be very nice.’

She drew a deep breath.

‘Applejelly lemon a pear

Gold and silver she shall wear

Gold and silver by her side

Take Mary Kelly for their bride

Take her across the lilywhite sea

Then over the water

Give her a kiss and a one, two or three

Then she’s the lady’s daughter.’

‘That’s nice,’ Yearling said when she had finished. ‘I like the lilywhite sea bit, don’t you?’

The child smiled at him. He went across to Mathews.

‘I know that little girl there. Could she come with our party?’

‘She is coming with our party.’

‘Good.’

He returned to the child.

‘Applejelly lemon a pear,’ he repeated. ‘I must learn that one. Tell it to me again.’

He went over and over it with the child, until the decoy contingent set off and they moved over to the windows to watch. The group of men about the doorway parted. The contingent passed through. From the height of the third floor they looked very small and vulnerable. The people who passed by were indifferent. Soon they were lost to his view. Some twenty minutes later the jeering of the men at the door brought him to the window again. Several cabs were passing in procession. The familiar banners were being held through their windows and the horses were moving at a smart pace. Their route was towards Kingsbridge Station. The plan was working.

‘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.

I know that I can count upon your cordial co-operation. I ought perhaps to add that if there is any local reason why next Sunday may not be a convenient day, the collection can be held on the following Sunday. But you will kindly bear in mind that the case is one of real urgency.

I remain,

Very Rev. and Dear Father,

Your faithful servant in Christ,

William

Archbishop of Dublin

Etc., etc.

P.S. The amounts received are to be sent to W. A. Ryan Esq., Treasurer, Special Committee, Council Rooms, Society of St. Vincent de Paul, 25 Upper O’Connell Street, Dublin.

Yearling read it in his bed in the Nursing Home where he was recovering from a dislocated shoulder. He was enjoying the rest. Mathews had escaped with bruises which still discoloured his face. Yearling read him the letter.

‘So that’s what we are,’ he said, ‘two proselytisers, energetically active.’

‘I forgot to tell you,’ Mathews said, ‘Mrs. Rand and Mrs. Montefiore have been released—on condition that they leave the country.’

‘They’ll miss the collection,’ Yearling said.

‘They can take the credit for it,’ Mathews pointed out, ‘and so can we. If we hadn’t moved, the Hierarchy wouldn’t have noticed any exceptional distress whatever. I wonder will the faithful stump up?’

When the bells of Sunday rang out above the city the collection boxes rattled in the streets and outside the church porches. The Faithful, instructed by their Archbishop, dipped into fob pocket and muff for loose change. There was exceptional distress, now officially recognised. The local clergy in consultation with the laymen who were Brothers of St. Vincent de Paul decided on the distribution. When their duty was done and Sunday was over they read of the arrival in the city of a large contingent of British Blacklegs. They saw nothing wrong in this, although it was designed to take the bread out of the mouths of the men and women and children they had just been collecting for. It was a crime to deport children in order to feed them, but no crime to bring in adults to see that they continued in starvation. When the workers organised a protest, the local clergy and the Brothers of St. Vincent deplored mutually the grip the Atheists held on the city.