At Swim, Two Boys - Jamie O'Neill [184]
“For sure,” said Doyler.
“I’d say you was there too, well in the thick.”
Aye he was, and he remembered how the men had come running, in twos and threes at first, then by their tens and dozens, all in a sweat and filthy from work, some of them wringing wet that had swam the canal in their hurry. The Fianna boys were there already and they were holding hands to form a line, perfectly fearless, between the peelers and the Hall. Then came the Women’s Corps, some of them with their children with them that had no place else to leave them. They didn’t mind the lost wages or the jobs they put at risk. They came to defend their Hall, the one place in all that city they might call their own. He remembered the strange mishmash of weapons they carried—iron bars, hammers, clubs, the odd rifle and bandolier. Shoulder to shoulder they stood before the blue-black mass of peelers. And Doyler had stood with them with his shoed handle of a pick. The pride he felt that day near pained him. Near pained him still. There was a lump in his throat he thought he’d never have it swallowed. These were his people. He was a Citizen soldier.
And Connolly would throw them away. He would give them all, hand and gun, to the Volunteers. They were too right not to trust Doyler with a gun, though he had waited these months for a rifle his own. He might shoot Connolly himself.
The boots said, “The Citizen Army are the boys. They’re the ones put manners on the polis.”
They had come to the Green. Beyond was the Russell Hotel. Doyler said, “Listen, if you’re that fond of them, wouldn’t you think to join?”
The boots sniffed. “He won’t let me.”
“This man that got you the employment, do you mean?”
“That’s right. He’s the manager inside.”
At a lane by the Surgeons Doyler stopped and pulled him aside. “What does he make you do?” he asked. The boy looked dismayed by the question. His head leant down into his chest. “He take you into his bed, does he?”
“No. Not that.”
“What does he do then?”
“There’s a cupboard,” said the boy.
He wouldn’t look at Doyler now. For a moment Doyler had a thought of putting his arm round his shoulder, try to cheer the chappie up. But he shook that nonsense out of his head. “Don’t come looking for me no more,” he told him. “If you’ve time to go walking, you’ve time to go looking for a decent employment.” He turned on his heels.
He was hawking the paper outside the GPO one day, and who came by only Mr. Mack, mooching along in a daze and staring up at the tops of the buildings. “Mr. Mack,” he said.
“My my, it’s Doyler Doyle. Well, I wouldn’t have known you. How’s this you’re keeping?”
“Grand, Mr. Mack, and how’s yourself?”
“Bobbing along, sure, bobbing along. We don’t see you out our way at all this weather. Sure I know what it is, the big smoke here. Poor old Glasthule is in the ha’penny place altogether.”
“Something like it, Mr. Mack.”
He wanted to know what was this Doyler was selling, and Doyler showed him the Workers’ Republic. Paper of Liberty Hall, he told him. But Mr. Mack could give him the story on that, and he was off telling about some poor young fellow was nabbed in Kingstown for peddling the self-same sheet. Mr. Mack didn’t know but he had to eat his Christmas dinner off His Majesty’s plate. He swung back on his heels. “You want to be careful with that rag, Doyler. I don’t know how much is this they pay you, I won’t ask neither, but keep an eye out for them constables on the beat. You’d be wiser selling the Evening Mail. The Herald even.”
Doyler was grinning away. He was very pleased to meet Mr. Mack. It was something from a long-lost past, something from his childhood even. “You’re a long way from home,” he said.
“I’m here on—well, I’m not here on business at all. Well, it is business actually, important business. What it is, I’m on my way to the Castle.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Oh yes, my mind is made up.”
“But, Mr. Mack, the Castle is down the opposite way.”
“Dublin Castle?”
“Back over the bridge and up Dame Street.”
He gave a look north and south like he thought they might