Redemption - Leon Uris [126]
For example: A pint of castor oil was forced into him. He was made to stand against a wall, spread-eagle in his bare feet. Jagged glass was laid all around him on the floor, so that if he moved so much as a centimeter he would be sliced up. Standing thusly, he was hooded and loud sirens and whistles were blown into his ears between questionings.
Conor told me that of all his accomplishments in life, none was greater than to be able to shyte standing up.
What happened after Sixmilecross was in nobody’s plans. Serendipity of an unusual nature fell into the Brotherhood’s lap. In reality, Sixmilecross was another of those famous Irish fuckups, a glorious tale of defeat, so prevalent in our history, but one that grows in grandeur from pub to pub.
Conor Larkin’s audacity in using Sir Frederick Weed’s personal train to run guns for the Brotherhood struck a nerve in the Irish funny bone. With public prodding by Atty Fitzpatrick and editorials by myself leading the free press, the country was soon awash in protest for the Sixmilecross “heroes” to receive justice.
England held a shifting balance of power in Ireland after the turn of the century. The Gaelic revival had been fanned into republican hot spots around the land. A sudden hope for freedom erupted.
Only Ulster, loyal Ulster, was safely in hand for the Crown.
On the European continent the Balkans were commencing nasty little neighborhood wars and it was only a matter of time until a monumental conflict between the great alliances would break out. Perhaps a year or two. Five years at the most.
Such eventuality caused England to consider closely her Irish situation. Ireland’s unfortunate geographic position would be vital to England’s sea lanes during any such conflict.
Moreover, England would need tens of thousands, nae, hundreds of thousands of Irishmen to fill in the fine old brigades and form new ones and otherwise provide Irish fodder for the Crown.
The obvious enemy in the coming war would plainly be Germany. Germany was thus in a position to supply arms to an Irish freedom movement and otherwise do what was necessary to destabilize Ireland.
The first impulse of the Crown was to take Conor Larkin and the Sixmilecross prisoners directly to the gallows and hang them. In one day the Parliament had passed “Larkin legislation” legalizing his seizure and allowing for secret trial and execution without so much as a lawyer to defend him.
However, the size and fury of the nationwide protest shocked the British into rethinking their position. To hang Larkin now could well ignite further riots.
The British deemed it too dangerous to rock the Irish boat and concocted a deal. In exchange for a halt to the protests and three years of silence by the Brotherhood, the Sixmilecross prisoners would plead guilty and receive a “benevolent” short prison term and then freedom.
Although it was a blow to Brotherhood ambitions and against stated policy, the thought of Conor Larkin’s hanging or serving a life term was unbearable. The Council, including Atty, Long Dan Sweeney, and my good self all agreed to the deal.
I was the messenger to tell Conor to plead guilty.
I was taken to the Curragh military camp where he was being held secretly. Seven weeks had passed without anyone’s seeing him. Manacled, limping, left arm slinged, eyes in deep bruised sockets…I brought him up to date and then delivered his orders of capitulation. Oh Jesus, it was the most wrong I had ever been in my life.
Conor replied, “After three hundred years of rubbing our faces in the mud and three hundred years of talking in circles, we have to draw a line. After a famine used deliberately to murder the Irish race, we have to test our mettle as a people, here and now. We may not have what it takes. As for me, I am Conor Larkin. I am an Irishman and I’ve had enough.”
I was never so ashamed of myself. He had turned our childhood dreams into the terrible reality of taking Ireland upon his own two shoulders.
There was nothing of bravado in the way he told me his words.