While Dragging Our Hearts Behind Us: Cork, 1916-1923

Introduction

I met my grandfather for the first time when I was sixteen and he was seventy-six. It was my first trip to Ireland; an opportunity for my parents to reconnect with their many relatives and an opportunity for me to meet them.

At the time he just seemed like a rather complacent old man: dressed in a suit each and every day, vest and all done up over his well-fed belly, well-pressed trousers hiked up to reveal his fancy socks pulled up on his skinny, old man legs. He seemed happy just for some peace and quiet, a cigarette and a cup of tea after dinner, both of which he sucked back with gusto while keenly watching the news, which at that time was full of The Troubles. For some unknown reason, he took a shine to me, despite my teenage awkwardness, and I guess that’s why I found myself standing behind him one day as he sat in his little parlour chatting with my uncle. I was marvelling over his fashionably long hair, stroking the white locks that reached down over his collar, only to discover a nausea-inducing depression in the back of his head, just behind his left ear. My finger sank into a little pool of soft gelatinous tissue, which indicated that under that little circle of hidden, hairless skin, he was missing a piece of skull about the size of a lucky silver dollar. Totally disturbed, I blurted out my disgust. His response was a chuckle and an Oh, that’s nothing, it’s just my old bullet wound.

My uncle, a man who found joy and goodness in everyone, laughed till he slipped off his chair. I suppose it was the horror on my innocent face that did it. So, you didn’t know your grandfather was once a notorious rebel? After my grandmother stood up, snapped at him about talking nonsense and slammed the door on her way out, I knew I was onto something. As it turned out, I discovered that during the years of the Irish War of Independence my grandfather was a fitting son of Rebel Cork, known for its willingness and ability to out-scheme the British and happily administer a taste of their own bitter, brutal medicine to the outraged oppressors.

I could see that each time I asked him a question, his big blue eyes would soften, and he would do something that he had apparently never done, except, according to my uncle, once or twice when his sons had slyly pickled him with whiskey. He would, with just a cup of tea in hand, travel back to the days of his mind-boggling youth, and pull out for me a story so outrageous it defied fiction. Nothing so unbelievable could be anything but true.

I can see him still, sitting in his chair before the burning peat fire, a rare smile gracing his face, just the two of us in the room. In a low voice, he told me of one adventure after another. He told me of gunrunning, jailbreaks, hunger strikes, ambushes, close calls with disaster, executions, alliances with the likes of local prostitutes, or movers and shakers like Michael Collins, even his own imprisonment and impending execution. He told me of his escape to New York where he spent twelve years, during those truly roaring 1920s and depressing 1930s working for a gangster, and eventually at the posh Heigh Ho Club in Manhattan working for George Putnam and Amelia Earhart.

Long after that first encounter with him, I inherited some pictures of his, and among them was an unusual shot of the four of them standing in an airfield somewhere. What cool customers they are. The women are elegant, dolled up, but even beside Putnam, a giant of New York, it is my grandfather who is The Man. Impeccable, double-breasted suit, fashionable hat of the day, he is casually standing with a hand in a trouser pocket, between the two women. Amelia has her arm through his, but he has his other arm around my grandmother’s shoulders. He looks at the camera, oozing confidence and a slight disdain for the photographer. He certainly doesn’t look too friendly.

By the time I left Ireland, I was completely smitten with my grandfather. I could not understand why no one else knew his stories, so I assured him that someday I would write a book about him. He just laughed and said, My, my, that would be quite a story.

I never forgot my promise, and many years later when eyewitness accounts became available, I began researching. It is a funny thing, but as his story got worse, and as details were filled in by the accounts of other men (he never wrote anything down himself), details he never mentioned, I began to feel more and more attached to him. I realised why he had never told his stories. I realised why some would prefer not to know even an outline of what he had seen and done. I realised I had been the recipient of just a few shortened, sanitised anecdotes, totally excluding the harrowing, sometimes bloody details of what had actually transpired during that ruthless fight for freedom. And yet my love for him seemed to swell, no matter the fierce, pitiless details, and each day I would be thinking of what I might discover and write about that evening. He was on my mind continuously.

As I pored through well-known materials, I could not understand why it was so difficult to find information about him, when many of his colleagues were so well known, many of their actions documented in books and articles. He was the only full-time member of the Intelligence Squad of the Cork No. 1 Brigade who was also on the Active Service Unit. He also participated in county-wide activities with the Flying Columns of the area. Why then, is his name, Jim Fitzgerald, or later, Seamus Fitzgerald, very common names in Cork, so difficult to come across? I read many dozens of witness accounts and found only six references to his name. He is included in the list of intelligence squad members found in a couple of period books. I discovered that in fact, many of the accounts of or by members of the Intelligence Squad do not name individuals who are responsible for carrying out specific orders. It is as if they and other members of the IRA shared a collective guilt, shielding each other from outside scrutiny. I do believe that above all he was naturally, and with the support of my grandmother, someone who kept his former life to himself.

However, the actions he took were most certainly recognised by his colleagues and superiors. Some years after the war Florrie O’Donoghue, Officer in charge of the Intelligence Squad, and later a historian of the period wrote a document addressed to the Minister of Defence. Jim Fitzgerald is one of a mere six names listed. Florrie writes: The work which they were called upon to do was extremely dangerous and in the conditions prevailing in the City at the time could only be performed by men of exceptional courage and resource.

Sometimes, when I would be searching for information on the internet or at the library, and could find no leads, and was second guessing myself as to the wisdom of actually writing his story, a little pearl would appear at my fingertips. Whenever that happened it was as if I could see him again, sitting and looking at me from his parlour, across the decades, a droll smirk on his lips. Perhaps he was anticipating the reaction of my daughter who would read my draft and text me late at night, … I am on page such and such… are you sure this really happened?

Once, when I was extremely disheartened, unsure how to write some wretched detail I would rather not have found, I had a thought to check out YouTube. It’s been over one hundred years since the bitter days of that war, but perhaps because of the one hundredth anniversary, someone had uploaded a few snippets of ancient, silent-moving-film footage of a large funeral of the day. About mid-way through the one-minute series of short clips, a familiar face stared at me across the computer screen. There he was, my grandfather, tall, handsome, young, and most of all, innocent. For a few short seconds he looked straight at the camera and straight through at me. Then he turned his head and disappeared. I looked at that clip over and over. I marvelled because my grandfather, who is about twenty-one years old in the clip, looked very much like my son, who was that exact age. It made me feel distressed, and for a moment our roles were all confused, and I was the mother, not the granddaughter, and he was the son about to engage in a world of madness and I knew what was to come and I could not alter the path he was about to take, nor even warn him. Somewhat like a nightmare, that instant passed in a flash yet it left a deep impression. I thought how strange that such a short clip should even exist after one hundred years and that I should come across it at that very moment when I was about to shut the project down. I thought also how lucky am I that my own sons will never have to take the road he took.

After scouring every source available to me, and dedicating much thought to filling the many gaps where events took place and nameless Intelligence officers participated, I decided that a creative turn of non-fiction was the best option. This allowed me to remain true to the recorded details, and at the same time insert, when necessary, actions and dialogue which may not have actually occurred, but which project the chilling atmosphere, the bald-faced audacity, and sometimes the sheer terror which most certainly had to be part and parcel of their daily lives.

Though I have no doubt that much is missing from the story, it is as faithful to reality as I could make it. Despite some of the disturbing details of actions and events that occurred by his hand or by his friends and compatriots, in his mind I know that my grandfather considered himself a soldier of Ireland. He was involved in many of the events in the city and throughout the county from 1916 to 1923, but his actions were always taken under orders. I do not believe that he expected to survive that time; nor when he began down that road, did he expect to see Ireland free. Such a thing had been, for centuries, a dream. His friend and fellow officer, Florrie O’Donoghue, once wrote that in their minds they had no idea how Ireland free would rebuild itself into a sovereign nation. It seems the fight came first, and if by some sweet miracle they were successful, and by some benevolent, ensuing miracle they survived it, the details would fall into place.

This story could not have been written without the great foresight of the Irish government who collected, in the 1930s and beyond, the witness statements of men and women all over Ireland, sealed them and opened them only after 2000, making them public and accessible. Many details were also collected from books out of print, culled over years from second-hand bookstores. Now, thanks to the hundredth anniversary of the Easter Rising, many of them have since been reprinted. I also owe a debt of thanks to An Roinn Cosanta, Department of Defence, the Irish office that holds the pension documents of those who fought. It took two years to get that document, but when it was delivered to my door, here in Canada, it was a true gift. There was my grandfather’s perfect penmanship, letter after letter, page after page, all of which detailed, as he noted, ‘a short sample’ of the many actions he took part in.

It is inevitable that since the hundredth anniversary of the War of Independence, and the accompanying flurry of books, articles, scholarly works, and deep investigations in the libraries and archives of Ireland and England, that some details in this story may turn out to be imperfect. For this I apologise. I worked with the materials available to me and from my own collection of stories my grandfather told me long ago. I come at this as an outsider. I have never lived in Ireland; I have only travelled there from time to time. However, I hope you will find that the story itself overcomes any minor infractions of fact.

After reading these pages, however you might judge him, know that the extraordinary actions my grandfather and his contemporaries took were a result of over seven hundred years of colonisation. Ireland was, after all, the first colony and the longest held. The Irish were the first slaves in the Caribbean, and victims of literally hundreds of years of cruel, relentless oversight; at times one might argue, intentional genocide. On the other hand, of the colonies, they were the first to achieve freedom and their actions, studied by every rebel leader in foreign lands to come after them, helped to change the course of imperialism and colonialism that restructured the world order. For a tiny island at the edge of Europe, last stronghold of the Celts who in ancient times crossed the continent, that is impressive.

The terrible price of freedom is always counted in lives of at least one generation lost or plundered, their minds or souls altered. The title of this book, While dragging our hearts behind us, is meant to be a reflection of that cost. It is a price the Irish were willing to pay not just for themselves but for their children and their nation. My grandfather and his many like-minded contemporaries across the country paid that price in full. It is their story, their lives lived.

And with that, I have kept my promise.

Boni Thompson

May, 2023

100th anniversary of the end of the civil war and the beginning of freedom for the Irish.

FORETELL

Chapter 1

1911 – April 1916

James sits and peers out of the window. He is ill today, or at least he has convinced his mother that he is, and so has been given a reprieve from the stupefying repetition of school, which he despises. He is therefore happy—happy to daydream intermittently between chapters of his book. His book, the bestseller that he has secreted from his older siblings’ belongings, is Cuchulainn of Muirthemne by Lady Gregory. It is a tale of ancient Irish glory more thrilling than anything his thirteen-year-old imagination has ever come across, and a worthy enough reason to tell a white lie and spend the day curled up in the front room.

The rain has kept him and the Celtic warriors of the story company, its soft pitter patter enveloping them all morning long. Outside, there is a thick mist saturating everything in sight, the grey brick of the row houses, the tiny, sparse gardens that preface each home. The impenetrable ten-foot tall, mossy stone wall separating this little street from the park, once an ancient British enclave of power, is completely obscured by the fog. In the distance, the immense bell tower of St Fin Barre’s Cathedral, of which this parlour window usually provides a long and scenic view, seems remote, ethereal, its ghostly outline barely discernible. Along the walkway that skirts the homes on this avenue high on the hill, James suddenly spies an old woman as she appears through the mist, trudging along wearily, her long, colourful skirts partially dragging on the ground, but short enough in spots to show her worn, men’s work boots, thick and heavy. She clasps her shawl close around her, emphasising her aged, bent shoulders. He recognises instantly that she is a Tinker, a Gypsy woman, probably begging or selling some items of questionable origin. Doubtless she has walked many miles this day, or perhaps her clan has dropped her off at a designated place, riding their sturdy wagons and large workhorses quickly through town, lest they meet with derision from the locals. They would have dropped her off and headed back to their enclave, hidden just out of sight on the outskirts of the city. A group of covered wagons, with young and old, men and women, dressed in their colourful garb, living so close together, it sends shivers up the spine of even the most open-minded Irishman.

To say that James’s mother dislikes such people is an understatement, and like many of her neighbours, she will not answer the door when they come calling. Unfortunately for the Tinkers, their reputation precedes them by several centuries. Fortunately for this woman, and interestingly for James, his mother is not home this afternoon. His father is. This is not an unusual turn of events, but it is unusual that James is here, his many siblings are not, and his father is actually in the house, not at his work of baking bread which feeds the City of Cork, or at the kennel, with his racing greyhounds, a hobby that consumes him. James watches as the woman retreats from each home in succession, walking down the short pathways from the front doors, swinging open each gate and stepping back onto the narrow sidewalk, each time seemingly empty handed. As she approaches his own home, James watches. The woman stops in front and observes the house. Has she been here before? James does not know. The woman puts her hand on the gate but hesitates.

James’s father, John, is a short stout man, his hair a glistening white mop, his smile a constant companion. He walks now into the room and observes his young son gazing out of the window. He steps closer to the glass to see just what holds his boy in such rapt attention. Well, Jimmy lad, what will we do? Invite her in for tea? James giggles slightly and studies his father. He knows this is unheard of, inviting a Tinker in for tea. His mother would have a fit! He smiles at his daddy, thinking it is a joke. But now – the knock on the door. James watches as his father steps lightly to the hallway, opens the door wide and asks the woman her business. Just looking for a hand sir, she calls out in a rasping voice and quietly coughs into a rag held tightly in the palm of her hand. Could you spare a penny or two, for my own grandchildren is all I ask?

Well now, Ma’am, pence are hard to come by these days. As he replies, James steps out from behind his father’s back and looks through the doorway. He sees the woman’s wet garments, the bright red scarf wrapped around her head. The few strands of grey frizzy hair that have escaped stick to her face.

Ah, I see you have a child of your own sir, she says. Her eyes are sad and bleary. ‘Tis a hard job keeping them fit and healthy, feeding them proper.

Indeed, it is Ma’am, indeed it is. His father looks to James and orders him put the kettle on lad and we’ll warm our guest here, and bids the woman step through to the back of the house where the kitchen fire is kept lit. James stares at his father as if he has gone mad. He knows if his mother comes home now there will be hell to pay. His father smiles at him and sends him off to the kitchen to make the tea.

God bless you sir, God bless you! the woman repeats. James’s father waves his hand in the air. Sure, ‘tis only a cup o’ tea. Sit yourself down by the fire. James is in awe. He watches the door nervously, waiting for the fury that is sure to erupt if his mother walks in. Then he turns his mind to concentrate on making the tea. He is not often asked to do this, having several older sisters, and for a few moments must think carefully of the steps involved. He places the kettle, always heavy with water, on the stove and begins to measure out the loose tea from the canister. He takes two everyday mugs, but his father, who is watching and chatting to the woman at the same time, stays his hand and instead reaches high onto a shelf and brings down three cups and saucers of his mother’s good dishes. Next, he reaches for the bowl of sugar cubes and to James’s amazement, the tin of chocolate biscuits.

He stands waiting for the kettle and watches his father and the old woman. As he does so the air in the tiny kitchen transforms and James knows intuitively that it is the presence of the woman that has somehow changed the atmosphere of the little kitchen. The sun slices through the overcast sky and enters directly through the kitchen window. The fire glows brighter. James feels warmer. The woman, whose clothes were sodden when she stepped through their door, has somehow dried completely and her ruddy cheeks shine, her tiny, recessed eyes sparkle.

James’s fingers come to life as he pours water from the big kettle into the teapot and carefully places the kettle back onto the stove. The conversation between his father and the old woman is unremarkable, consisting of the weather and its relentless unpredictability. It is as if neither the woman nor his father notices the sudden transformation of their surroundings. But it is obvious to James that this moment is highly irregular. Tinkers do not get invited into homes. Fathers do not drink tea with old women. Thirteen-year-old boys do not sit on weekday afternoons with strange, wrinkled old tinker women, drinking tea from their mother’s best cups. James ponders these things and all the time he watches her. Halfway through her tea, and she does not drink quickly, but seems to linger over each gulp relishing the comfort and warmth, his father presses the small plate of biscuits upon her, smiling. She is reticent but his smile encourages her, and she takes not one, but two biscuits, biting into them with satisfaction, the absence of the odd tooth in her mouth suddenly becoming noticeable.

When at last she is finished she declines a second cup of tea but looks to his father and queries, would you accept a fortune in thanks for your hospitality, sir?

Ah, thank-you indeed ma’am, but ‘tis better not to know the future is my feeling altogether. James’s father is gracious, but the old woman presses him. Sure, ‘twouldn’t hurt, but if you are not agin it, I would see the boy.

His father looks at James and winks. James, dredge your cup lad, and hand it to our guest. The old woman takes his cup in her gnarled hands and looks into it. She looks at James’s face and again at the leaves that have left a design at the bottom of his cup.

I see here you are a smart lad, she says, but sure you know that already. What you will be wanting to know is your future. Am I right, young sir? James shrugs. He does not know what to say. As a child he was certainly warned against tinkers. He has never been allowed to speak with one. The closest he has ever come is passing them on the street, and at that his mother would always place herself between them as she strode by with her long gait.

His father laughs. Answer our guest Jimmy lad! Yes, ma’am, James replies, wondering what his father and the woman are up to. As if anybody can tell the future! The woman looks into the bottom of the cup intently. She lifts it into the air, twisting it and turning it and James can see light glinting off the gold rim. The green shamrocks seem to jump out from the white background and dance temporarily in the air before alighting again. She lowers the cup and looks at James, her eyes boring into him.

You will live a long life, son. I see a life of equal measures. You will have joy for certain, but there will be many days you walk the earth dragging your heart behind you. You will give joy and sorrow in equal measure. And you will receive joy and sorrow. Yes, in equal measure. James is fascinated. He thinks that perhaps the old woman can see visions of his future life swirling about in a cloud in the cup. As if reading his mind, she puts the cup down carefully on the saucer. Look, she points with a swollen and bent arthritic finger at the dark tea leaves stuck to the white china. I cannot see what will happen to you in your life. But it does not matter. I know the end result. James wonders what a long life is. Far into the future he will look back on this extraordinary afternoon and see it as a portend of his life. Right now, he musters his courage and looks the old woman straight in the eye.

How old, he asks? James’s father bursts into laughter. Do you want to know the time and place? He chuckles, the writing on your gravestone? The woman does not smile, but returns James’s stare and seeing that he believes, tells him.

Hmmm… If I am no mistaken… you will live ninety-two years. Yes, ninety-two years… now that is a long life. She looks at James’s father. You laugh sir, but don’t ye know? I have the gift. I’m known for it. Then she turns to James. Her eyes seem to pierce straight through his own and with a wry smile on her face, and without moving her lips at all, James can hear her, clear as day, as she tells him: Life is a mystery, young sir. Don’t try to understand it. Sure, it doesn’t make any sense at all!

*

There is much to be learned from a man’s name. What it is tells you something. What it is not also tells tales. James is his name. But Séamus is what it should be, by rights. He is as pure-bred Irish as any of his friends whose names reflect the heritage and history that is the sum of their nation’s misery. But right now, he is known as James to his mother and teachers and priest, Jimmy to those who know him best, and Séamus only to those who have a vested interest in all things Irish, an interest that James will soon appropriate as his own.

James has been given his name by a mother who wishes to swathe her children in a blanket of protection. The thinnest of buffers against a hard life of few choices, it is at least a thin veneer of respectability, to be adorned with the genteel names of the Victorian British. Thus, in the midst of the most rebellious of Irish cities, married into a family of known troublemakers, but with the best of intentions, she names her pedigree Irish children Edward and Julia and John and James, nine children in all, with nine very British names, and prays their lives will not be a repetition of her own. She prays that somehow wrongs will be righted. Anticipating that her prayers will go unanswered (as indeed Irish mothers’ prayers have through seven hundred and fifty years of history) she insists on education, good manners, proper dress, noble speech and civilised politics of the Daniel O’Connell variety, notably non-violent with change effected through proper channels. She is dumbfounded when her young son Edward blows off his fingertips making a bomb in their back shed.

This happens in 1916, a year that will soon go down in Irish history as the best and the worst of years. James is seventeen years old, and the British have just executed fifteen mostly young, or at least young at heart, Irish idealists who had the unabashed gall to lead their men in a challenge to the British, holed up at the General Post Office on O’Connell Street in Dublin, refusing to give up or give in. They are perceived as a rag-tag, motley group of young dreamers and stubborn old men, desperately trying to turn the heads of their Irish families and friends and neighbours and yes, even their Irish enemies. Taking on the British Empire, where the sun never sets, with a few hundred rifles smuggled in from the Germans and a paltry assortment of antiquated shotguns, farmer’s pikes, and dull knives smuggled from around the countryside, commandeered for a surprisingly deadly purpose. The fifteen hundred or so men who gather are laughed at and cajoled and yes, even reviled by their own people. Not right in the head, passers-by think, on this gloriously sunny, spring morning, Easter Monday, April 24, 1916, to be precise, as they march along O’Connell Street, the centre of Dublin City, on their way to certain doom.

Each brigade has a leader with a plan. And their plan entails barricading themselves in a few strategic locations around the downtown core, proclaiming their natural right to self-governance, and wait for the British to come calling. Their leaders know too well their inadequacies, but choose to ignore this, and like children who close their eyes and believe that others cannot see what they themselves cannot see, they pray quietly, just under their breath. They pray that their strengths will somehow outweigh their weaknesses, that they are enough to make a mark, scratch the Irish consciousness, catch someone’s attention, somehow change something in this land of complacent, subservient poverty.

Amazement sets in when after a few days they shock themselves and the world at large with their own persistence and surprising effectiveness. The mess of the downtown buildings, pummelled to smithereens by an English army shocked at its own impotence, will become an enduring symbol of Irish determination and fortitude for later generations. In fact, the bullet holes left in the surviving walls of the grand Romanesque General Post Office will be left untouched, to be revered or gawked at, if not appreciated, by the grandchildren and great grandchildren of those who bled quietly to death slumped up against the walls or who got caught in an untimely stream of bullets, crawling across the nearby green. They hold off the Brits through Easter Monday, and all of Easter week and after six days and no other alternative in sight their leaders decide against a suicide mission. The young schoolteacher idealist in command, Pádraig Pearse, accompanied by a fervent volunteer nurse, Elizabeth O’Farrell, hoists the white flag of surrender and meets the very British General Lowe quietly and proudly. They stare him down, eye to eye, refracting his withering, malevolent glare into history.

Those Irish soldiers who are left standing march back down O’Connell Street, this time led by British uniforms, dodging the shattered bits of buildings, the ongoing fires, the stacks of household furniture that had been dragged onto the street and piled high to act as barricades. They listen to the cat calls, the abuse and derision hurled at them by their own ones lining the streets, while the English soldiers smirk to themselves or shake their heads in wonder while marching them to their certain punishment for such cheek.

The British command does not smirk or shake their heads, however. They know the Irish. They know this minor battle which they, the British, struggled to control, will only work to fire up the relentless, incessant little faction of rebels and troublemakers who are a part of every Irish generation. They will not disappear, no matter what the British do. This nasty lot of overeducated upstarts kept them going for six days – six long days of increasing frustration. They would not have believed it could be done, especially by the Irish. This scruffy, grubby pack has managed to make the entire British Empire look stupid, mean and ineffectual.

The British do not like looking stupid or ineffectual, and in their rage, they make the worst of mistakes. They interrogate and investigate until they can determine the leaders… or at least some of the leaders. They execute those fifteen men, rosy cheeked, poets and farmers and teachers, idealists all, brave and handsome. They shoot them one by one, day by day, against the inner courtyard wall of Kilmainham Gaol in Dublin City. The general makes sure Pearse is among the first. But Pearse, instead of trembling in terror, calmly whistles an Irish rebel tune while the Brits cock their guns. The last in line, angel-faced, much loved, man of the people, Mr Connolly, they shoot after strapping him in a chair, as he can’t stand on his feet with his injured ankle, an injury incurred by a British bullet, whilst counselling the men under his direction, behind the post office walls, to fight bravely even in the face of defeat, even in the face of death, even as the average Irish citizen wonders what on earth you might be thinking playing war games with the British who, everyone knows, never lose.

People line up in the streets behind the cold, impenetrable stone wall of the gaol, or crouch in their beds, staring sadly out of the window at the last stars before daylight, or dream fitfully of demons dancing in anticipation. Fingering their beads, mouthing the Hail Marys, they pray quietly, their only balm in times of grating, festering hopelessness. They hear the shots from British rifles rip through the warm spring air, their echo spreading like a cascade of fireworks into the sky and across the dirty cityscape, over the green hills, and fall hard and fast on ears lately grown deaf, waking their owners to a new day. The early morning light is defiled, morning after morning, and the hearts of the people soften and begin to melt, while newly found tears drip quietly off their pale cheeks. Those same countrymen who shook their heads and wondered at the sanity of that crew of stinking, hungry, bedraggled men, marched to imprisonment by the British uniforms, begin to rail over the wickedness of killing their leaders. Men of obvious vision, those lovely, brave men.

Mothers begin to moan as they feel the stirrings of relentless waves of pain, like giving birth, slowly overwhelm. Old women pray their rosaries, silently fingering each bead, each a plea for mercy, all while their old men cry out at injustice and the cruel fates of history. Children stop playing. Young women sob.

And young men? Young men join the IRA.

*

The city of Cork in this year of 1916 is already an ancient and respected place. The most southerly city in the country, sitting on the River Lee at the mouth of Cork Harbour, it has been a place of trade for hundreds of years. The city is built on two islands set snug between the rippling branches of the River Lee that encircles it, before continuing out to sea further south. The harbour is one of the largest inland harbours in the world, sheltering its citizens from the cold and ferocity of the Atlantic’s winds and waves. There are many fine buildings and establishments in the downtown core skirting either side of the wide, picturesque river. Soon these will be burned to ashes by the British, but at this moment, such a thing is unimaginable to the average citizen.

It is a city of hills, a fine hiding place for dragons, as good Fin Barre, revered spiritual protector of Cork, discovered long ago when the islands were just a swamp by the sea. That was back in the year of Our Lord 600 when he had arrived back home from his travels. He had come home by way of a circuitous route, leaving his adoptive family of monks by the western shores and travelling to visit other enthusiastic new Christians, looking, as do we all, for a purpose to his life. In his travels he spends some time chatting with a new friend, the gentle giant and grandnephew of King Arthur, Saint David, who tells him, Go! Speak with our illustrious leader. He will give you a mission.

Fin Barre is young and impressionable at this point, though he will live to be one hundred – an age James comes close to but doesn’t quite reach – and so he takes his friend’s advice, and heads for the open sea. Far away in Rome, Pope Gregory the Great is busy dealing with the bands of swarthy, pugnacious Italians, old family Romans, and more recent immigrants, that is, newly settled Barbarians, who are crawling over the seven hills of the Holy City. Yet he is not so busy to stop and take a moment or two to get to know Fin Barre, the strangely luminescent, intensely introspective young man and, recognising the telling humility of a saint, demands to make him an Archbishop on the spot. Fin Barre declines. It is an honour he has no entitlement to, or so he thinks, and with a sigh, the great Gregory recommends to the holy youth Fin Barre’s own race of half-pagan, half-new-Christian, tribal, face-painting Celts. He sends him back to monotonously rainy Ireland to quell the various lusts of the irascible Celts from whose loins he had sprung. On his return trip to Ireland, Fin Barre meets an old friend, the pious but adventurous Brendan, off to convert Europe, currently inhabited by the progeny of those same Barbarians who ransacked Rome. Brendan happily raises his arm in greeting to Fin Barre across the water as they meet on the high waves of the Irish Sea. Neither man is aware that they are on the cusp of their separate quests. Quests that will be celebrated for hundreds of years after their own flesh and bones have turned to dust. Fin Barre, on his return, is about to begin the legend that will cement his reputation by taking on the last remaining dragon of the British Isles.

He is without doubt a crafty creature who had obviously chosen to wait it out in that remote southerly shoreline of secret coves and high cliffs, and further inland the green and rocky hills and vales. One may wonder if in fact the dragon instead sheltered itself in a cave not unlike Fin Barre’s own low, circular stone cell in the centre of the marsh, waiting for the scholarly saint’s influence on the locals to wane. This will surely become a tiresome wait, even for something with the longevity of a dragon. For Fin Barre’s teachings will reverberate through the centuries to survive even the mind-numbingly cruel onslaught of the English. Indeed, the locals, the men and women and children of Cork will never give up on their saint. Or perhaps it is better to say that St Fin Barre will never give up on them.

As years pass, the City of Cork grows up the valleys and into the hills in no small part due to Fin Barre himself. The Celts come from far and wide to visit Fin Barre and in due course become lovers of language and learning to augment their already healthy appetite for story. Stories that are so wonderful, we know some of them still. Fin Barre’s reputation is helped of course by the fact that once he settles in Cork, the dragon is never seen again. It also helps that he retains his handsome visage the whole of his hundred years, and his gorgeous platinum locks, though shorn and tonsured, continue to rebel by growing thick and lovely despite the saint’s horror of vanity. In fact, even Fin Barre’s own father and mother are revered by the locals. Living nearby, they watch in awe at their beautiful boy, grown manly and strong. His mother in particular wonders if even an archangel could be so lovely.

But Fin Barre is immune to it all, the litany of stories whispered in ears as he passes by, the attention of the ladies, the lesser Christians of whom believe it quite a waste to have one so handsome, so holy. He focuses instead on building a community of Christians who seek the word of God through learning, as much as faith, and wish to live a life of peace and goodness. He builds for himself a beehive hut in the centre of the marsh, downstream from his birthplace and original home, and his followers continue to flock to see and hear him speak.

After all, he has brought back from his far-flung travels one of the few original copies of St Jerome’s vulgate: the ultra-modern translation of the Bible, taken from the Hebrew and the Greek and the Aramaic and whatever else in which it was written, laboriously translated by the linguistic wonder Jerome. Who outside Rome has such a treasure? And yet Fin Barre brought it to them, the people of Cork. The new Christians are compelled to travel to Cork by the stories that arise about the obvious saint, his adventures overseas, his friendships with the mighty of the known world, his complete and utter lack of self-aggrandisement despite stories that tremble with honour and glory, and really lack only one thing: a beautiful woman.

But the new Christians, who are sick to death of the secret ceremonies, the corrupt debasement of Christian values propagated by their old druid leaders who, despite St Pádraig’s transformation of the island, continue even in their dwindling numbers to hound the locals with their superstitions, are content to leave the women alone for a change. After all, the druids may be highly educated, speak several languages, know secret cures taken from the plants of the earth, and carry the history of the Celts in their learning. Nevertheless, they are often hoary old men fighting a losing battle with Christianity, bitter, and intent on punishing the people with their terrifying superstitions and insatiable appetites for cruel forms of punishment. In contrast Fin Barre’s way acts as a salve to the people’s long offended sensibilities, contrasting so compellingly with the rituals the druids constantly promote. The absence of the strong female figure in the stories of Fin Barre, a figure the ancient Irish attend to with rapt devotion, is quelled in part by the story of Fin Barre’s own mother.

Still alive and happy, living in the remote and preternatural mists of Gougane Barra, the source of the River Lee that flows south-east to ripple past the city of Cork, can be found Fin Barre’s mother and father. It is quite obvious to all who see his mother that she is holder of the looks in the family gene pool. Fin Barre’s father, Amergin, artisan to the local king, risked life and limb to secretly marry the much lower-class servant girl. Though no account exists, it is quite probable the lovers, with hearts pounding, stole by the light of the moon to the ancient trysting stone to proclaim to God and nature their intended union. The stone, if it was anything like the trysting stone that stands to this day on Clear Island, far to the west, was a tall phallic stone, thick enough to have the pair stand on either side without seeing each other. At shoulder height through the stone is found a hole, just wide enough to insert one’s arm and search for the other’s hand, to embrace and squeeze and with quivering voices proclaim their marriage to all who watch, in this case, perhaps only the moon and the local foxes peering out of their den. Shortly after the illicit ceremony, and with the hard luck that starving artists everywhere instantly recognise, Amergin is quickly found, doubtless his hands caressing the love of his life, perhaps stroking the slightly protruding belly of his beloved and whispering sweet nothings as she tries to knead the daily bread. At any rate, the caressing must stop suddenly, for the two are caught and bound.

His anger raging at the rebellious Amergin, the king sputters and spits at the audacity of the artist. Truth be told, the king would hate to lose him because of his unique abilities which translate into the fine handiwork that adorns the king’s possessions, ancient Celtic symbols few can fashion. Nevertheless, the king’s word cannot be scorned and so, influenced by the gleeful druids, the king proclaims death by that most dreadful and long-lasting of executionary arts, burning at the stake. The two young, illicitly married lovers, bound to the same stake, high on the pyre, and under the scrutiny of the druids, pray in unison to Christ, loudly and surely in terror.

The sun shines down on them, mercilessly it seems, blinding their eyes as they scream for succour. As the flames crawl past the kindling at the base of the pyre and dance and lick their way up towards the trembling toes of the two, a thunderous bolt of lightning shoots down from the heavens, and a deluge of water drenches the crowd, instantly putting out the flames. The confused and terrified druids retreat at the sound of the relieved Christians falling on their knees in song and praise of the goodness of the Lord. The king graciously pardons the two lovers as the rain, the like of which has not been seen since Noah’s time, leaves him standing bent and sodden. He notes the obvious Divine intervention that has occurred on their behalf (and possibly his, as he was wondering from where a replacement for such a talented artist might be found) and proclaims amnesty. Thus, Fin Barre’s tiny unborn form is saved and indeed blessed. When wandering monks make their way through the mists of Gougane Barra several years later, they cannot but gasp at the beauty and graciousness of one so young and request the great honour of taking him with them to their western monastery, bringing him into their fold for a proper education.

Some thousand years later, good St Fin Barre is remembered by a vast cathedral built on the site of his damp monastery. Alas, he surely turns over in his grave to discover it is none other than the British Protestants who erect this awesome tri-spired structure, replete with stained glass windows, stone naves, and bells that can almost be heard across the sea. Even our saints they take from us, the locals, Catholic as the day is long, can be heard to whisper to each other in their soft sing-song cadence, as their sweat drips and melds with the mortar while erecting the beautiful but awfully heavy stones, one on top of the other.

The stones are new, hewn from the local quarries, despite the fact there are many old stones lying about that once composed the medieval version of St Fin Barre’s church, sheltering the grave of the still beloved saint. Those stones had been torn asunder during the Reformation, one hundred-and-fifty years prior, and left by the local English ascendency in a heart-rending mess, as far as the cruelly treated Catholics were concerned.

Nevertheless, it is work that makes the money that buys the bread that feeds the children, and so the Catholic labourers flock to the building site, hoping to be paid for their trouble. They erect the new cathedral and successfully keep the most beloved ancient stone carvings from being incorporated into the blasphemous new structure. One hundred years later, however, they are not so lucky, and with the latest version of the cathedral, completed in 1865, their own great-grandchildren, again acquire much needed pay for labour, first demolishing and then rebuilding.

Eventually the structure is finished as it stands today. The ancient Catholic site, not just stolen from the people, but made so glorious, so striking, it is a marvel to behold. And this time, the ancient carvings from medieval times are taken from the former ruins and incorporated into the new building. The finest and oldest of these they do not recognise. A series of Romanesque voussoirs are to be found still, sitting on a high, deep and dusty window ledge in the Chapter House. These lovely head carvings of folk from about the year 1130 are meant as arch supports and at one time graced the doorways of the ancient Catholic church looking down on whoever entered. Who they are is a mystery, but their faces were carved by the same good artisan who carved many others still to be found across the land in ancient, holy ruins. Are they the faces of Fin Barre and his followers? No matter, sighs the famous English architect, William Burges, and tosses them in the small side room; we will worry about them later. But after he spends £100,000 on the building that was to cost just £15,000, he feels it best to leave the premises without delay, the voussoirs left to sun themselves on the window ledge.

Taking the ancient Catholic ruins and incorporating them into their new very Protestant structure is a minor cruelty, easily borne by the locals. It is after all just a few years since the great famine. The English, by 1865 when the church is completed, are adept at cruelties of all manner, not just the extreme physical cruelties, of which the Irish know only too well, but every degradation they can imagine, just to drive home the unrelenting message of who is in charge. After they collect their pay, the Catholic workers, builders of that fine cathedral, walk down to the river, across the bridge, and attend Mass in the Catholic Cathedral of St Mary and St Anne. Two saints they needn’t worry the Protestants will attempt to apprehend.

*

James grows up in the shadow of the spires of St Fin Barre’s Cathedral. He knows the stories of Fin Barre, the great strength of character and virtue he demonstrated amid a humility that was without doubt beyond the reach of your average young man. It is certainly beyond the reach of James, for James becomes focused, not on peace but on war, and humility is not a virtue to be found within the hearts of those bent on death or worse, even if it is in the name of freedom. If Fin Barre terrified the dragon, the dragon has found a friend in James and sets to whispering in his ear, loaning James in his youth a fierceness that the English are unaccustomed to and do not anticipate.

No. James, like the dragon, thinks fiercely, fearlessly, and of his country’s enemies. And like the old Tinker woman who foretells James’s future, the Irish Volunteers set James and many able-bodied young men his age on a destiny few can imagine. The rest of their lives, if they are lucky enough to survive, will be forever altered. Indeed, those who, like James, begin life loved and tender-hearted, will be transformed. Much like the shapeshifters of Celtic mythology, they will find themselves twisted and turned into something they do not recognise, capable of actions they could never have imagined, and emotions so dark and intense, there are no words to describe them.

JOIN

CHAPTER 2

APRIL 1916 – MAY 1916

And so, James cries out on that fateful day, the day his little brother Edward blows the roof off the back shed along with a handful of his previously-taken-for-granted fingertips. James just happens to be leaning back against the sink, in front of the kitchen window, staring down at the kettle, waiting for it to boil so he can make his own tea, a job he adopted long ago as a boy. He hears what he might describe later in life as a sonic boom and turns to see a plume of smoke escape through the ripped boards of the roof of the shed at the far end of the garden. He ducks and runs through the half-door of the kitchen, across the grass, down the long narrow length of immaculately kept gardens, past his mother’s prize roses and stops dead in the doorway of the shed. He arrives just in time to watch his little brother sink to the floor, his back against the far wall, one hand holding the other arm straight out, staring at his hand, specifically, the place where the top portions of his fingers had once been, mere seconds before. The blood spurts out in quick, intense intervals and spirals down his arm in rivulets, spilling onto his rolled-up shirt cuffs as his eyes dilate and he begins to shake and a sound he does not recognise as his own high-pitched scream emanates from his lips. James feels the panic rise in his chest only after he has torn off his shirt and wrapped his brother’s hand tightly against the raw red and black flesh. He steps outside the now crooked, partially unhinged door and vomits into the black earth beneath his mother’s profuse, scarlet rhododendrons.

Edward is nine years old the day this happens, well almost ten, but still, a young fellow by any stretch thank goodness, because if he had been any older the police that showed up at the door an hour later would surely have taken him to Cork Gaol, a place James will come to know intimately. At the minute, however, he cannot even imagine such knowledge of the already archaic, rat-infested building and he is certainly relieved that Edward will not.

Edward is of the perfect age to be dazzled and dumbfounded by the stories of Rebel Cork—stories that glorify the dissenters, protesters, agitators, and malcontents of the land, both ancient and modern. He is an enthusiastic, if young, member of the local chapter of the Gaelic League, that patriotic, romantic organisation begun by the illustrious Mr Douglas Hyde and the studious Professor Eoin MacNeill a few years back at the turn of the century, and now a thriving stronghold of young and old in every town and village. Twice weekly, young boys and established young men walk or ride or cycle to their local club to inhale their history, ancient culture, dying language, mournful music and energetic dance, and not just a little politics. They practise their new language skills, learn to play hurling, and listen to old Fenians regale them with stories of rebels long gone, as well as more recent, life-threatening escapades, incarcerations and escapes to and from English gaols by the contemporary objectors of the land. Edward cannot get enough.

Up until this moment, James has been an ardent advocate of all of his little brother’s revolutionary musings. In fact, it was James who encouraged the entire family, even Edward, though so young still, to join up and come to meetings to learn the hurling game and the Irish tongue so that they might grow into true renditions of Irishmen and Irishwomen. Indeed, he has contributed to the young lad’s enthusiasm with his own dreams of valour and hopes of glory, taking on the English oppressors. But until this moment, James has never thought objectively of the sacrifices that such glory demands. Musings of ancient or newer warriors did not include the stink of rotting flesh and the harrowing screams of a young boy. In the wake of this terrible event, after listening to the weeping laments of his mother nursing what is left of her young son’s ripped and ravaged hand and feeling the incriminating stare of his father bore into his soul, James reconsiders. He will keep his enthusiasm to himself and hope that his younger siblings will not make the mistake that young Edward did, attempting life-threatening activities on his own. But James will not withdraw his own personal enthusiasm of the cause. Instead, he learns to keep his own counsel and develops a poker face, and dons it all the day, relaxing only in the evening, surrounded by his friends.

James hangs out at the Gaelic League with his buddies, but especially with his best friend (were he to think of it) Seán. If he had to recall how or where they met, he would not be able to tell you because the two boys have played in the field that both their homes back onto for as many summers as he can remember. They look as opposite as two Irish lads can look. James long and lanky; Seán, small, even scrawny, the type of child who always has a runny nose and is badly near-sighted. His father absconded to Australia when Seán was still of a tender age, leaving the family destitute. It was this scarring event that left Seán, the youngest child, the most vulnerable. Seán is two years older than James and so not in the same class at school, but they share a calm disposition and a reticence to say anything more than is necessary. They feel the connection that somehow joins them and stick up for each other. They are at this minute blissfully unaware of their trials to come.

For now, despite all of the activities at the Gaelic League, there is nothing that fires the blood in their veins more than riding their bicycles across hill and vale. For years, their lithe figures have flashed down the hills of the city on their rickety bikes and been seen as far-off specks on the horizon, exploring the county on Sunday afternoons. Watching waves crashing off the cliffs and wandering the secret beaches of the ragged coastline are common activities. More often than not their return home is precipitated by a change in the unpredictable weather. At times they must give way to the lashing of rain and wind that forces them off the road to seek shelter under ancient bridges. The exhilaration of hunger and exhaustion is sometimes mitigated by the kindness of strangers who notice the wiry bodies, slack stomachs, and darting eyes when they stop and ask for a drink from a farmer’s well. A slice of bread and butter, and perhaps a rasher of bacon if they are lucky, are dispensed to restore them and enable their journey home. Seán and James are fast friends who know each other well. They know as well each other’s families, and some of their secrets.

Though typical Irish pride has kept Seán from sharing his burdens with James, his friend knows that he has suffered from hunger from time to time. His house is poor, his father long gone, his much older brothers and sisters working to keep the family together. James has often had his friend take home the extra bread that his father, a baker, brings back with him each day from work. James’s father, God love him, knows the look of hunger only too well and willingly offers what he can. But this is not all that Seán suffers. Seán suffers most from the constant political discourse in his home, the unceasing emotional ranting, the sometimes-hysterical arguing, the hushed planning, the secret meetings, the old stories, the never-ending analysis of political moves from friend and foe.

Yes, Seán suffers most from these and whether James knows it or not, it is the thing that drives Seán to escape every Sunday afternoon with his bicycle, pedalling like the devil to get away out of it all. Seán, having been raised on endless talk of schemes to wrestle their country back from the British, is excited only by the idea of finding a new home, a new country and starting a new life as far away from Ireland as it is humanly possible to go. While they pedal their bikes like madmen, Seán is dreaming of faraway places. James understands that this youngest member of the MacSwiney family is unlike his