Redemption - Leon Uris [295]
A nightmarish aspect began to grip Ireland, and curious journalists from abroad were finding their way in. General Brodhead proved so intransigent that, at last, Asquith arrived. Yet, he arrived cleverly, not in time to stop the killings….
May 12, 1916
Sean McDermott, a jolly Irish barman of thirty, crippled by polio, who also had the misfortune of being Tom Clarke’s best friend.
and
James Connolly, a man of stature and a powerful symbol of the Rising. Connolly, a Scottish-born, self-educated labor leader and father of seven living children, was a tough man in a dangerous profession in perilous times, a no-nonsense, dedicated republican and socialist.
At the General Post Office Connolly had been twice wounded, receiving a smashed left ankle and a fractured shinbone, but he continued to direct the battle from a cot.
Unable to walk, he was removed from his cell on a stretcher and strapped into a chair, then shot by the firing squad as he sat there. The manner of Connolly’s execution, killed in truth for the crime of being a union organizer, made a most indelible mark on the public.
Asquith slipped back to England later that night. With Connolly as the cherry on the cake, the prime minister called a temporary halt to the executions and shifted focus to England’s very own traitor, Sir Roger Casement.
Had England’s statement overreached its purpose in those days following the Rising? I think there now stands a small but possible chance that this is the case. As your man here said before, you just don’t go around shooting poets.
Part Five
Sir Roger
Casement is
in the Tower
of London
75
Dublin, Mid-May, 1916
Rory was welcomed into Dublin Castle in a manner fit for royalty. General Brodhead personally met him at the door in a velvet smoking jacket of hunting-coat red trimmed with black satin collar and pockets.
“Landers! By Jove, it’s good to see you again,” he said, extending his hand. Rory was unable to reach him with his own stiffened arm in gloved fingers.
“Oh sorry,” the General said, “how is that, anyhow?”
“Not bad at all,” Rory said, wiggling his arm. “They’ve been doing a lot of patchwork surgery on it. I’ll possibly get forty to fifty percent use of it back. The doctors feel they’ve done as much as they can do for now. They want to make a judgment in a few months after I do a routine of exercises.”
“Bad luck,” Brodhead said.
“Well, it’s pretty good for holding things. A whiskey glass or a beer bottle fits right in. I can hold a book and turn the pages with the other hand…I did discover I was a right-handed toilet paper user, very awkward, that switch-over.”
Damn, he liked the lad’s spirit! “How about the eyes?”
“The doctors call my condition concussive injury to the optic nerve. I can see fairly well. I can get around, even ride a horse, which is most important. My sight will suddenly come clear for periods, but I can’t do detail work. Eventually I’ll be fitted with special glasses.”
“You certainly look more chipper than the last time I saw you in Wandsworth Hospital in London and pinned the Victoria Cross on you. Too bad about the lad who got you back to the beach.”
“Flynn.”
“Died on the launch out.”
“I suppose we stopped the last grenade the Turks threw.”
“I must say,” Brodhead puffed up, “the evacuation was a masterpiece, without casualty. The Turks had their minds on the mules you ran up the gully. Too bad about the mules.”
“Yes,” Rory whispered, “too bad about the mules.”
“Have a seat, Lieutenant. Let’s see if we have anything here better than navy grog.”
Rory studied the room he could only see in images. Like most of Anglo Dublin, it displayed a tattered elegance. The General rang for his batsman who returned with a pair of stiff Irish whiskeys. Although it was May, the fire was good stuff to cut the chill off the Castle’s stones.
“Cheers.”
“Cheers, sir.”
“Obviously I was hoping for a command on the Western Front,” Brodhead said, “but once