The Red And The Green (32 page)

‘Why are you sitting here on the floor?'

‘Well, you see until about five minutes ago Cathal was tied on to the gas stove.'

‘What?
But who tied him? And who put these handcuffs on you?'

‘Pat did.'

‘Pat?' Frances swept round the table to Cathal's side and shook the boy by the shoulder. ‘Cathal, are you all right? Tell us what happened? What's all that bandaging for?'

Cathal shrunk slightly away from her touch, but did not otherwise move or speak.

‘Are you both bewitched?'

‘It was a gag,' said Andrew, with the same slow stolid enunciation.

‘A gag? Cathal gagged? But why? Who did it?'

‘Pat. Or rather Millie.'

‘Millie,'
said Christopher. ‘Was she here?'

‘Yes. She went with them.'

‘With
who?'
cried Frances. ‘Oh, do talk properly!'

‘With Pat. With the Sinn Feiners.'

‘But where to?'

‘To fight.'

‘Oh God, I was right.' Frances clapped her two hands over her mouth.

‘Millie gone with the Sinn Feiners, to fight?' said Christopher stupidly. ‘But there isn't any fighting.'

‘There will be soon,' said Andrew. ‘They're going to start at twelve.' He drew his legs up in front of him, twitching his shoulder. He said, ‘I'm deucedly stiff.'

‘But it's almost twelve now!' Frances started convulsively towards the door, then returned to stare down at Andrew. ‘But you—why are you here like this? What happened, what
happened?'

‘I shall never be able to explain that to anybody,' said Andrew, speaking in the same slow way and staring past Christopher at a point on the wall.

‘At twelve. It can't be. It's impossible.' Christopher stood there stupefied, his arms hanging down as if he too had become a doll. Millie gone to join the rebels, gone away with Pat with a gun in her hand. ‘But why did you just stay here? Why didn't you go and do something, tell somebody, if you knew about it?'

‘It was your
duty,
what were you thinking of?' Frances was looking down at Andrew now almost with fury.

‘I can't explain,' said Andrew. ‘I found out about it quite accidentally. Then I gave Pat my word of honour that I'd tell no one and that I'd stay here in this house until twelve. And he handcuffed Cathal to me because he wanted Cathal kept out of the fight. And he gagged him, or rather Millie did, so that he shouldn't shout for help. And I took the gag off and undid his hand just before you arrived because he was crying so much I thought he might stifle and the time was almost up anyway.' He offered the account in a dull voice as if after all it were something obvious. He shifted awkwardly, tugging Cathal's arm with a petulant movement.

‘But why, why, why?' cried Frances. ‘Why did you give in? Why did you promise? How could he have frightened you so? Why didn't you run out and try to stop it all? Why did you just sit here for hours doing nothing? Have you forgotten you're an Army officer?'

Andrew simply shook his head. He looked up at Frances for a moment, and then screwed up his eyes as if he had been dazzled.

Frances stamped her foot. Her hands clawed at the muddied skirts of her coat. She advanced on Andrew as if she would have kicked him. ‘Your word of honour! Gave Pat your word of honour! You ought to have shot him as a traitor! You've betrayed your King and country. You've dishonoured your uniform. How could you do it? I can't understand!'

‘I don't think Pat understood either,' said Andrew slowly.

‘You did it because you were afraid of Pat. You've always been afraid of Pat. Oh, I shall never forgive you—'

As her voice dissolved into an incoherence of tears the clear sound of a bell was heard. It was the angelus ringing at Saint Joseph's church in Berkeley Road.

They all paused for a moment. Then with a jerk Cathal threw himself forward and began to rise. Andrew tried to crouch, but was pulled sharply on to his knees. The handcuffed pair swayed awkwardly together and at last managed to get up on to their feet. Frances began to sob again. The angelus went on slowly ringing. There was a distant noise which sounded like rifle fire.

Chapter Twenty-five

A
NDREW and Cathal raced down Blessington Street in the bright sunshine. The sky, cloudless and pale golden with light, dazzled their eyes. Swinging between them and concealing the handcuffs was a mackintosh which Andrew had had the presence of mind to pick up as Cathal dragged him through the hall and out of the house. Their feet clapped and slithered upon the still rainy pavements, and the wet sunny houses gave back an echo, as they rushed along, now jerking apart, now drawn violently together by their bound wrists.

The sun was hot. The two figures were running now in step. But by the time they got as far as Findlater's Church Andrew forced Cathal to slow down. Cathal's breath came in wailing gasps, like quick little screams, and his face, as Andrew glimpsed it, strained and moulded by fear, looked no less grotesque than his Lazarus head of an hour ago. They continued at a quick jolting walk. People eyed them uneasily as they passed; and here and there from side streets men with grimmer faces emerged and began to hurry down toward the centre of the city. One or two people now passed them at a run. An increasing murmur of anxious talk hung like a light canopy above their heads. Dublin, a little startled, a little puzzled, seemed already to be aware that this was no ordinary day in her history.

As they came past the Rotunda toward the upper end of Sackville Street there was a sound of rifle fire ahead of them and then, as in reply, a burst of firing in another part of the city. The murmur of talk fell almost to silence and the moving people, not yet numerous, seemed to draw together with an uneasy, eager purposiveness, already aware of themselves as a crowd compelled onward by the mystery of an historical event. Someone laughed nervously. The rifle fire was heard again.

The police had already formed a cordon across the end of Sackville Street and people were standing four and five deep behind them. Andrew and Cathal pushed their way forward until they could see, over the policemen's shoulders, the wide expanse of the street, empty. That sudden utter emptiness, more perhaps than anything else, showed to the wondering gaze of the onlookers the extraordinary nature of what had happened. The Post Office had a strange look. The glass in all the windows had been broken and the spaces barricaded with piles of furniture. The building already had a huddled, beleaguered appearance, the air weirdly of a fortress. A large placard hung upon the façade read:
Headquarters of the Provisional Government of the Irish Republic.
While up above, in place of the Union Jack, a green flag blew out taut and clear, with the words
Irish Republic
written upon it in white letters. There was something miniature, amateurish, improbable about the scene, as if the line between dream and reality had been crossed in a blundering manner and almost unaware.

As they watched, the crowd almost silent now, a figure emerged on to the Post Office portico and began to speak, reading aloud to the empty street from a piece of paper which fluttered in his hand. While the sound of the voice, too far off to be understood, rang out thinly in the clear sunny air, a man near to Andrew who had some field glasses said, ‘That's Patrick Pearse.' Andrew could not hear Pearse's words, but he read them later many times and on many days as they nightly appeared upon posters all over the city. ‘Irishmen and Irishwomen. In the name of God and of the dead generations from which she receives her old traditions of nationhood, Ireland, through us, summons her children to her flag and strikes for her freedom….'

The figure had vanished now from the Post Office portico and the deserted street seemed quiet, almost sleepy, in the sun. The crowd began to talk again in low voices. There was a baffled painful excitement which was like guilt.

‘Why didn't the English take a pot shot at him while he was out there?'

‘Sure, that lot have no guns.'

‘He's after declaring the Irish Republic, whatever the hell that is.'

‘Isn't it the like of the bloody Sinn Feiners to do this on the day of the races, and it fine for once.'

‘The murderin' idjuts, they've killed a horse.'

Andrew, peering between the shifting heads of the police, saw that they had indeed killed a horse. The horse lay in the middle of the street opposite the main door of the Post Office, a huge brown glossy mound. Looking at the dead horse, Andrew felt a piercing fright, an anguish which he scarcely understood. Then looking sideways he saw on the nearby pavement, some mounted and some dismounted, a group of Lancers in colourful uniforms and very evident disarray. Bound for Phoenix Park, the Lancers, who carried no firearms, had passed unsuspectingly down Sackville Street at a minute or two after twelve and had received the first volley from the rebels. Four men had been hit and had already been pulled away into the shops opposite. The horse remained. Andrew looked at the Lancers and looked at the horrified, frightened face of the young officer, a boy of his own age. Andrew's heart expanded and contracted with a violence which almost broke it, as if the blood were trying to burst from his body with shame and despair. He touched himself, touched his cap and jacket to be sure that he was indeed wearing them, touched his shoulder with the single pip. He too was a British officer.

He was then at once aware that people in the crowd were looking at him. The crowd was detached, confused, if anything hostile to the Sinn Feiners. But they stared at Andrew and at his uniform without friendliness. By the violence which had already occurred a breach had been opened, and through that breach inevitably would flow the bitterness of centuries.

Andrew began to struggle back. People were pushing now alarmingly from behind. He edged through, pulling Cathal after him. He tried to manoeuvre his pinioned hand so as to get a grip on the boy's wrist, but managed only to catch hold of his limp fingers. Cathal followed him unresistingly now, his head hanging forward. They picked their way back out of the densest part of the crowd.

Why had he done it? He was a dead man now, he had died there in that little room sitting there beside Cathal with his back against the wall measuring the slow hours and minutes of his dissolution. Frances and Millie, the figures of the women paled to nothing, he scarcely now recalled who it was that had been with him when the angelus began to ring. What was colossal, irrevocable and insupportable was the destruction of his honour. He had been murdered in that little room just as surely as if they had shed his blood. Why had he given in and let them destroy him?

Even as he replied Andrew knew that this was not the answer and that he was without defence against the appalling nature of his act. When Millie had whispered to him, driving him with her knee up against the scullery wall, that she had had a certain relationship with her brother, his father, and that there were letters to prove it, he had for a second not believed her. Then when she had gone on murmuring into his ear that unless he surrendered she would have those letters sent to his mother, his mind was overwhelmed with a pity for Hilda which had seemed to bring belief with it and to leave him with no other course but to protect her. Such knowledge could blacken his mother's life back through time to its very roots. He could not risk, by any gambling with Millie, the possibility of so hideous a disclosure. He decided to give in at once.

Now he could doubt it all. The first shock, felt for his mother, brought belief. The second shock, felt for himself, brought disbelief. How could anything so horrible have really happened, anything so, as he now apprehended it, insulting to him? Perhaps there were letters, but they might mean nothing or be construed as harmless. Perhaps Millie would not, or could not, in fact have carried out her threat. Or perhaps, with a grotesque ingenuity, she had invented the whole story to terrify him with. That afternoon, he supposed, he would go to Upper Mount Street and find out. After that he would report to Longford.

But the thought of Longford and of his shame brought him to what lay deeper. He ought, whatever else he had done, to have faced Pat. He ought to have ignored Pat's revolver and to have fought Pat with his bare hands. His cousin would not have killed him. Or if he had, that would have been better, far better, than this other death. He had been near to Pat, nearer perhaps than ever in his life, when Pat had smiled and said, ‘How else could you answer.' At that moment there had been a bond between them of dignity and respect. But Andrew had merely spoken of his duty. He ought to have done it. He ought to have fought then and there in the Dumays' kitchen with all the fury of his manhood. This was the encounter for which his whole life had been a training. He loved and he had always loved Pat Dumay. To have fought with Pat then up to any extremity of destruction and disaster would have been the last perfect expression of that love. But precisely because he had always idolized Pat the spring of power was broken inside him. He could not command the splendour of will which would have taken his cousin into a wrestler's embrace. He had dishonoured his uniform and this dishonour could not be forgiven, or blotted out by any degree of heroism ever. And he had done it, in the end, because of Pat and for Pat; and in doing it he had done the one thing which would make Pat despise him eternally.

Andrew found that he was still holding Cathal's hand. He looked at the boy. Cathal's face was oblivious, flushed and running with tears. Andrew felt near to tears himself. He said, ‘Come on, Cathal, we must find someone to get these things off us. Do you know where we could go?' He pulled the boy along with him, pulling him away from the ominous dreadful emptiness of Sackville Street.

As they walked together, people were hurrying past them from all sides in ever increasing numbers, their talk filling the sunny air, louder now, more confident, already less amazed.

‘Is it mad they all are?'

‘They're bringing field guns up into Trinity.'

‘They've got the Irish Lights boat up the river to shell them out of that.'

‘Please God they've got a priest in there with them.'

‘God and His Blessed Mother help them now, the poor bloody fools.'

‘Ah, sure isn't this a grand day for Ireland.'