Of Irish Blood (31 page)

“Honor? General Wilson is the only man of honor on the British side. He’s committed himself to France, promised his government to join us in driving the Germans from Alsace.”

“Oh, Lucien,” Maud says. “He’s spinning you fairy tales. Telling you what he wants to be true. Plenty in the cabinet will refuse to risk Britain for France or any European country. You’ll see. If war does come, the British will sit on the sidelines selling arms to all sides and pick up the pieces when it’s all over as they’ve always done.”

“You’re very cynical about the country your father served,” Capel says, speaking for the first time.

“It’s not my country,” Maud says. “Ireland is my country.”

“Ireland’s not a country,” Wilson says. “It’s a province of the British Empire for which all sensible Irishmen thank God every day. And you’re quite wrong about our commitment to France. True enough, there’s plenty of politicians blathering on about peace. Frocks, I call them. In league with the ancient admirals who think the creaky old British navy can defend our island and see the army as nothing more than a glorified police force. I’m on my way to London now. I’ve just come back from a mission for the war department. I’m going to report on what I’ve seen: Germany and the Austrians are getting ready for war. Russia will fight with France. I’ll scare the frocks out of their fancy pants with stories of great armies gathering and poor France, at the mercy of these bullying…”

“Wait, monsieur,” Millevoye says. “France is strong, too. We’ll be ready for the Boche this time.
Attaque,
as Joffre says. We Frenchmen have an
‘élan vital’
no other nation can match. We failed in the past because timid generals fought a defensive war. The French temperament is more suited to offense. Boulanger knew that, and now we have generals with spirit leading our army.”

“General Boulanger,” Maud says to me, “Lucien’s hero. He was to restore France’s honor. Bring back the monarchy. Instead he let them all down. Committed suicide on his mistress’s grave.” She turns to Millevoye. “Wake up, Lucien! If war does come, the Germans will roll over you. What help will the British give you? Not much I’d say.” Maud hits the table with her palm. The glasses rattle.…

I wonder if we’re going to order dinner at all. Not the time to bring it up.

“The French are not beggars,” Millevoye says. “Our army is bigger than England’s. But promises of British support will reassure Russia.”

This fellow’s saying what Constance said. They sound like kids. Tell your mother my mother said yes, and then your mother will agree. Geeze Louise!

“Ah, Lucien, no need to tip your hand,” Wilson says. “Better for France to be the victim at this point. The nation Britain must defend.”

“This is all such poppycock,” Maud says. “The Russians are getting ready to fight because they think the Germans are preparing for war. The Hungarians are afraid of the little Serbians. France, obsessed with the
‘revanche,’
will go to war because they think Britain will fight with them. But Britain’s army is small…”

“There will be conscription in Britain,” Wilson says. “And in Ireland, too. Our army will number in the millions.”

“Millions,” I say.

“All needed to fight in Europe, Miss Kelly. No one available to pacify Ireland,” Wilson says.

“Wait a minute,” I say. “You would really push England to war to keep Ireland subjected?”

“I’d do a lot more than that. And now, I have a message for you and all those Fenian murderers hiding in the United States. Fingers will be pointed. They will be labeled German agents. The newspapers will print stories about the Irish collaborating with anarchists and Bolsheviks, trying to drag America into a foreign war. And some may meet with unfortunate accidents. You, yourself, should perhaps be concerned.”

“Me? But I’m not political. I don’t understand half of what you’re talking about except that my father fought in the Union Army during the Civil War and Mam said he regretted it until the day he died. Hated killing other men. Told her wars are easy to start and hard to end. And my aunt Máire once said to me that the fellows who push for war never fight themselves. No point in threatening me.”

He stares at me; the scar swelling, red, getting brighter.

“And you know, General, I’ve got brothers in Chicago who’d be awfully mad if something happens to me. My cousin Ed’s a big noise in the Democratic Party and has a lot of pals in Congress and the Sanitary District. So I wouldn’t suggest picking on me or Maud either. You might need America sooner or later.”

Maud and I stand up and stomp out.

Arthur Capel catches up with us as we turn onto boulevard Saint-Michel. He takes Maud’s arm and steers her toward the fountain, where the archangel Michael is still waiting, sword raised.

“Defend us in battle,” I say to myself. The prayer comes to me, the words registering as never before. “Be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil.” Something of the devil in that fellow Wilson, no question. Easy to imagine his gaunt figure as a confident Satan laughing at his own cleverness, setting the traps that will lead to war. Seeing himself as Ireland’s savior crushing the rebels and Redmond. What had he said? The army wouldn’t take orders from Johnny Redmond. Weren’t Redmond and his supporters elected representatives? And hadn’t they argued the case for Irish Home Rule over decades until they finally convinced a majority of the British Parliament that Ireland should have some control over its own destiny? For God’s sake, all the Irish want is to be Canada. What’s the big deal? Would Wilson really start a civil war to keep Catholics in their place? “Croppies lie down.”

“Listen,” Capel is saying. “You’ve got to understand a fellow like Wilson, not really out of the top drawer. You heard him bragging about his ancestors marching into Ireland with King Billy? Not true. The Wilsons were lowland Scots, cleared off their lands and planted in Ulster to pacify the Irish. Some grandfather of his made money in trade. The Wilsons bought an estate in Longford from a family who went bust. See themselves as landed gentry but have never been accepted by the best people. But now he’s a golden boy in all the Big Houses. Lord Londonderry, Baron Inchquin, and the Earl of Drogheda invite him and his dumpy wife into places they never would have gotten inside. Not as popular with his fellow soldiers. See him as a conniver, a bit of a coward, too. He manages to avoid the battlefield. I had a fellow ask me how I could bear spending time with that snake Wilson.”

“How can you?” I ask.

“He loves France,” Capel says, “as I do. It’s my mama’s country. And, I have all my money invested here.”

“And there’s Coco,” I say.

“Of course. Mademoiselle Chanel has quite wisely set up a shop in Biaritz and will be away from Paris during the coming unpleasantness.”

“So there will be a war?” I ask.

“You heard Wilson. Plenty of generals on the French side just like him ready for
‘Attaque
.
’
Viviani’s trying to put on the brakes, but Wilson’s got them all convinced England will stand with France if she takes a swing at the Boche. And so they will, my dears. So they will.”

Maud’s been silent, staring at the fountain, water shooting up from the angel’s feet into the light. Darkness all around us.

“So Wilson’s a snob,” she finally says.

“A snob with very little money,” he says. “The worst kind. My papa made so much lovely lucre in trade I can be as noble as I want to be. And if poor old Peter Keeley does turn up proof of my pedigree, then as you Americans say, ‘Katie, bar the door!’”

“Will you fight if there is war?” I ask him.

“Oh, I’ll buy myself into a good regiment. I can afford the best. The fight will last a few months at most, enough time for me to be mentioned in dispatches. Good for business. But Monsieur Wilson. Ah, he’s different. He wants to become a field marshal, stand at the tippy top. Master of all he surveys. Not possible to advance like that in peacetime.”

Maud is pacing. “Tommy used to talk about fellows like Wilson who could not really afford to be officers.”

“Afford?” I say. “But doesn’t your army pay its soldiers?”

“A pittance,” Maud says. “An officer needs a private income to live. Uniforms alone cost a fortune. And then there’s swords and horses and houses for entertaining. It’s possible to scrimp, of course. But, well, not the done thing.”

“Wilson found a way,” Capel says. “Got himself appointed to the staff college. Cheap housing.”

Maud’s not listening. “Tommy always said fellows without enough money have a chip on their shoulders. More concerned about their careers than their country. And now Wilson will be the big man on the horse, conspiring with Bonar Law and all those other climbers. Desperate to be Sir Henry Wilson, I suppose. The Earl of something or another,” she says to Capel.

“Positively salivating for it, my dear,” he says. “Never a good idea to get between a hungry dog and his bone. Well, I’m off. Did my bit pro patria. Both patrias really. That’s my job now, helping out Clemenceau and the boys. Good evening, Mrs. MacBride. I’m having a late drink at the Ritz with an old pal of mine and his wife … somebody I believe you know. Percy Wynham. He’s a half brother of the Duke of Westminster and his wife is Lord Ribbesau’s daughter.”

Maud nods. “I was presented at court with her.”

What is it with these people and their titles? I think as Capel walks away onto the street under the lamps of boulevard Saint-Michel. Handsome, no question, but how can Chanel bear all that blabber about who’s related to whom?

I say as much to Maud as we walk up to rue Jacob toward the Panthéon and the Irish College. We both need a dose of Father Kevin. Nearly eleven o’clock. I hope he’s still up.

“It’s why men like Wilson hate Constance and me,” Maud is saying. “We’re the real thing.”

“I am, too, Maud. A real Irish American.”

Maud tells the seminarian on porter duty we must see Father Kevin. He lets us in. Probably thinks we’re desperate to confess our sins.

When Father Kevin comes down he takes us into the cold parlor and Maud relates our encounter with Wilson.

“He threatened Nora,” she says.

“Wilson is all bluster and bullying,” Father Kevin says to me. “He can do nothing to you, Nora. You’re an American citizen and, besides, you’ve decided not to get involved with us.”

“Well,” I say, and look over at Maud. “George Washington and Lafayette and my uncle Patrick fought against men like Wilson. I am not going to disgrace them.”

“So, you’ll help us?”

“I will.”

“You’ll be a Daughter of Erin!” Maud says.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Maud, haven’t I always been?”

JANUARY 12, 1914

I don’t know what I expected. That I’d be initiated? Swear a blood oath? Learn secret handshakes? Maud has said that her investiture into the Golden Dawn, the esoteric society Yeats belonged to, was so disappointing she quit the next week. “Found out they simply ginned up Masonic rituals,” she said. “Silly, really. And such drab people.”

Maud and her friends had started the Daughters of Erin to teach Irish culture to poor children in the Dublin slums and feed the kids too.

What ceremony would they offer?

When I get a note inviting me to Maud’s apartment the next evening, I’m not sure what to wear. Something green, I suppose. I do have a bright green scarf and a small marcasite harp I found in the flea market.

I’m surprised when Father Kevin opens the door to Maud’s apartment. Shouldn’t the Daughters of Erin ceremony be women only?

Maud still has that same cough, but she’s excited as she greets me and brings me into her drawing room, where Constance is fussing over a dark-haired woman sitting close to the fire. She resembles pictures I’ve seen of Susan B. Anthony, the suffragist.

“Molly,” Father Kevin says, “may I present a fellow American, Nora Kelly?”

The woman stretches her hand out and I reach down. We shake. She has a strong grip.

“I’m Molly Childers,” she says. “From Boston originally. And this is Mademoiselle Barton, my husband’s cousin.”

“Bonjour,”
says Mademoiselle.

Younger than Molly. About twenty-five I’d say. Her clothes, her accent …

“You’re really French,” I say.

“Je suis une femme d’Irlande aussi,”
she says.

I wait for her pedigree, but she only smiles.

“The Bartons have produced great wine in France for generations,” Father Kevin says. “But they are Irish.”

“And I’m Mary,” the third woman says. Older than the other two, gray-haired, wearing a modest dress. Their maid, I suppose.

Now Molly Childers’s gesture brings us all close to her.

“My dears,” she says, “the greatest news. The
Asgard
will be able to carry two thousand rifles.”

Rifles? What are they talking about? No one is paying a bit of attention to me—the latest Daughter of Erin. All eyes on Molly.

“We’ll be able to sail from Hamburg right to Howth. Erskine says the weather will be suitable in April or May so we have four months to raise the money for the rifles.”

“But, Molly, is the
Asgard
big enough?” Constance asks.

“We’re having the
Asgard
refitted in the same boatyard in Norway where it was built. When my father gave us the yacht as a wedding present, a very clever craftsman made a harness that will hold me securely on the deck.”

She smiles at me.

“I’ve a bit of bother with my legs, Nora,” she says, “but we American women are tough, aren’t we? When Maud told me a countrywoman of mine had joined us, I was delighted.”

“Oh, right. Yes.”

Rifles? What are these women planning? My God, I can just imagine what will happen if that awful General Wilson hears about this.

“Asgard,”
Maud is saying. “Isn’t that the name of the Norse heaven?”

“Yes,” Molly says. “Such a good omen. What could be better than sailing in to save Ireland in a boat named for the home place of the Vikings.”

“But didn’t the Vikings invade Ireland? Rape and pillage and destroy the monasteries, and…” I say.

Molly waves away centuries. “At the start,” she says, “but the Norsemen married Irish women and settled in nicely. Why, some of our finest families have Viking roots. The McAuleys and the McAuliffes were originally Mac Olaf, son of Olaf. And friends of ours from Westmeath are called McKissick, which was MacIsaac, and, of course, all the Normans were once Norsemen. So…”