A Star Called Henry

  But as I cycled into the wind, as I swam across the Deel with the Arseless on my back because there were R.I.C. men standing on the bridge downriver at Mahoonagh, as I got back on the bike and pointed it at a place of stubborn roads and people, I was one self-important little rebel. I had no idea of my tininess and anonymity. I was the Henry Smart of song and legend. I was the inspiration for a generation, a giant on a bicycle, moving from county to county, leaving my mark on the foreheads of the gallant young men, a living example to them all, and a man with a secret mission beneath the one that was whispered into the ears of all the young men of the parish: I was one of the chosen. I was a gunman. I could hear Jack Dalton’s song even in the loudest storms - He was prince of the city streets, no other lad came near - I could hear Collins talking only to me - We’re nearly there, Henry, we’re nearly there. I had no time for elections or voting, even as a screen to hide the real fight. I was no democrat, no more than Jack Dalton or Brugha or Ernie O’Malley were. The will of the people wasn’t measured in votes. The vote meant choice, but there was no choice. There was only one right way. Some of us knew the way and it was up to us to lead, not to ask permission of a voting majority, but to lead, to really lead, to show, demonstrate, live, die. To inspire, provoke and terrify.

  I was good at it, and getting better all the time.

  Sinn Féin had fought the election on the promise that they would abstain from taking their seats at Westminster, so none of the newly elected members, those not in jail, went over to London. Instead, they met in the Mansion House on the 21st of January, 1919 and formed Dáil Éireann, the parliament of the Irish Republic. De Valera, still absent, was elected Taoiseach and President. Collins was Minister for Finance. He wasn’t there either. He was called present but he was actually in England with Harry Boland, also called present, planning de Valera’s breakout from Lincoln Gaol. Griffith became Minister for Home Affairs and Count Plunkett got Foreign Affairs. Brugha got Defence, the Countess got Labour and Mister Gandon got Commercial Affairs and the Sea.

  Henry Smart got wet.

  I was cycling with scouts in front and behind me; an R.I.C. lorry had been seen in the vicinity and I was a wanted man, although there was no face on the posters that were gummed to the barracks and post office walls and the details and even the name were elusive - Henry Smart aka Fergus Nash aka Brian O’Linn aka Michael Collins. Is not to be confused with the other Michael Collins. Age: between 21 and 29; 6 feet in height, or taller; dark, long hair sometimes fair; eyes, always blue and striking; is considered handsome by members of the fair sex. Wanted for Murder and Sedition in Ireland. £1,000 Reward. I was cycling from Drumshanbo down into Roscommon. I had committed a murder; I’d caved in a rozzer’s head with my daddy’s leg on Beresford Place but they weren’t after me for that one or the share of soldiers I’d killed in 1916. As for sedition, it had become my middle name. I was Henry S. Smart. Sedition: words or actions that make people rebel against the authority of the state. That was me. And, as I approached the half-hearted outskirts of Strokestown under cover of the sleet that had kept me company all the way, as I passed the leading scout, a fat boy resting his heaving chest on the handlebars of his sister’s bike, a fat girl who loved me and Ireland and was always dying to prove it, as I took a mental note to reprimand and kick him for waving at me as I cycled past him, as I looked forward to the bed and shelter that were waiting for me in old Missis O’Shea’s house in Rusg and tried not to worry too much about the soup that was part of the bargain, as I did all this nine men in Tipperary shot dead two policemen.

  What a day that was. In Dublin, the foundation of the Irish state and in Soloheadbeg the murder of two poor peelers, the first official killings of the War of Independence. Two huge events and I missed both of them. Although my mark was in both places. In Dublin Jack Dalton wore my suit because he’d left his jacket in the fists of two G-men who’d come very close to arresting him on Infirmary Road the night before and, in Soloheadbeg, most of the men who lay in ambush for five days waiting for the cart of gelignite for the quarry and the two peelers who came with it, they had been trained by me. They sat silently and still for five wet January days as I’d taught them to do, Seamus Robinson and Tim Crowe, Paddy O’Dwyer. I’d made them perch on stones in fast, freezing water for hours of the day and night and told them that their ability to lock themselves stiff and snap out of it while the warning twig was still breaking or the enemy bullet was still travelling to the chamber, this line between stillness and speed and their sureness on it was the thing that would keep them alive or kill them and I told them that they would be living on this line for the years that it would take to beat the British or until they died, whichever came first. They lay in ambush for five days, the men I’d trained and the others with them, including the one who lived long enough to write the book and so became the man who fired the first shot for Irish freedom. They waited, although they went to Dan Breen’s mother’s house each night, which was never part of their training and stupid, leaving themselves open to the eyes and tongues of the quarry workers on the road. And on the fifth day the peelers arrived with the cart and they shot them, Constables McDonnell and O’Connell, two local men, one of them a widower with four poor brats, and they took the cart and then nearly killed themselves and half of Tipperary by driving the springless cart loaded with a hundredweight of frozen gelignite over a rough road made of loose stones and holes. And they left the detonators on the quarry road beside the dead peelers. They did it without H.Q’s knowledge or sanction - bored, young, stupid men itching for their big day - but it became the first real action of the war. I knew nothing about it, and heard nothing for weeks; I was cycling down through Roscommon for a big day of my own.

  —Good, good, good, said old Missis O’Shea.

  She poured lukewarm water over my fingers and released them from the frozen handlebars.

  —Could you not wait till the summer for your manoeuvereens, young fellow? she said.

  —Men trained in the winter win their wars in the summer, I said.

  —Well, isn’t that well put? she said.—Come in out of that weather now. It’s a soft day but there’s a hard crust on it.

  I parked the Arseless in the long barn and in the morning there were men there waiting for me, men and boys, cold, eager and cranky.

  —Are you the fella from Dublin?

  —I am.

  —Ivan says you’re going to show us how to kill the English.

  —I am.

  —I didn’t know there was learning in that.

  —Ah there, I said.—There’s killing and there’s killing.

  —What d’you mean?

  —Well, there’s killing and getting caught and there’s killing and not getting caught. And there’s killing the fellas who are paid to catch you.

  —The peelers?

  —Yep.

  —Why would we want to kill them? They’re not so bad.

  —Go home.

  —I was only saying.

  —Go home, I said.—You’re not ready for the fight.

  —I am.

  —You’re not. Go home.

  It was the same everywhere. I’d home in on some poor eejit who was only voicing what all his friends were thinking and I’d have to humiliate him and put all their fears on him until they began to hate him for his weakness and for showing off theirs. There was the Dublin problem to be got out of the way as well: they hated anyone or anything from Dublin. Dublin was too close to England; it was where the orders and cruelty came from. And the homespun bollixes in Sinn Féin and the Gaelic League were to blame too; Ireland was everywhere west of Dublin, the real people were west, west, west, as far west as possible, on the islands, the rocks off the islands, speaking Irish and eating wool; the Leaguers lived in Dublin but they went west for their holliers, to the real people. I was in old Missis O’Shea’s long barn with a batch of the half-real people; they spoke English but they knew that they were more Irish than I was; they were nearer to being the
pure thing. Yet here I was lording it over them, not like the English or the old landlords but a bit like one of their own, a returned Yank or something, like them but not enough. I dressed like them - my suit was on Jack Dalton - and I looked like them but I was from Dublin. They knew that I had expertise, that I deserved to be their master and they hated me for it. I didn’t care. I didn’t relish it but it didn’t interest me. Besides, there was some sort of inverse relationship between their animosity and my success with their sisters, wives and mothers. I could live with their hostility.

  And this now was nothing special. The lads in the barn wanted to back their friend but they were afraid of exposure. They blamed him for bringing it on, and me for being so genuinely superior. But the resentment and malice weren’t crackling. They were just cold and scared, giddy for adventure but afraid of it. I was going to rescue them.

  —Is there anyone watching the road?

  A bright spark behind the others spoke now for the first time.

  —Sure, that’s all we do all day.

  We had a laugh and I told the chap I’d just sent home to keep watch out at the gate instead. He seemed pleased enough at this and the rest were pleased for him.

  —That’s the first thing you’d want to get into your heads, I told them, and waited.—As of this morning, you’re all wanted men.

  I watched that news register. They were delighted; they always were. Wanted men, just like that, for turning up to meet a Dublin man in a long barn. They started to like me.

  —What’s your name, son? I asked the lad who was going out to the gate.

  —Willie, he said.

  —Willie what?

  —O’Shea.

  —Any relation to old Missis beyond?

  —No.

  —Any teachers in the family?

  —No.

  —Good man. Off you go.

  He went out and I stared at the rest until they grew restless and I let my heartache melt into disappointment. There were ten or eleven of them, ranging in age from twenty-three or so down to fifteen and sixteen. Farm boys in big boots made bigger by the season’s muck. They’d be good. They were strong, used to fighting the weather, familiar with their own company. They’d have shot rabbits and stray cats.

  —Any spies in the barn? I said.

  That shook them. They stiffened and wobbled, tried not to look at each other. Then the bright voice behind them answered for them.

  —Not a one, it said.

  —How d’you know? I asked them all.

  —We’re all chums here. We’re cousins if we’re not brothers.

  He’d stood up now and I could get a look at him. It still wasn’t easy. He was small and relaxed, like a drunk jockey, strolling behind their shoulders.

  —And you are? I said

  —I’m Ivan.

  My contact. The single name I’d brought with me from Drumshanbo.

  —O’Shea?

  —No, he said.—And there’s no teachers in the family either.

  It was my turn to wobble.

  —Grand, I said.—That’s the next thing to get into your heads. You’re all wanted men. And you’re spies. Don’t get me wrong, I’m accusing no one. I’m including myself. You’re wanted men for one reason: you’re in the Organisation. I’ll swear you in soon, but you’re here with me this morning and that alone is an act of sedition. Before you even put on a uniform or handle a gun. You’re already breaking the British law. As of now every word you say is important and possibly dangerous. A careless word can get you shot or your pal beside you arrested. The wrong word in the wrong ear makes you a traitor and a spy.

  I’d impressed them again. I watched them inflating; they were important, singular men, and I’d told them so.

  —So think before you open your gobs.

  —It’s the way I always go about it, said Ivan.

  —Good, I said.

  —What’s your own name, boss? said Ivan.

  —I’m Captain O’Linn, I told them.

  —You must know what you’re up to if they’ve made you a captain, he said.

  —I do, I said.—Right, men. This is the wrong time of day for our kind of business. You’ll be missed and there’ll be talk. Where’s the big house?

  —What d’you mean, like?

  —The old landlord’s, I said.—Where is it?

  —That’ll be Fitzgalway’s, said Ivan.—Shantallow Manor.

  —Grand, I said.—Shantallow. We’ll meet there tonight at seven. Sharp. All of you?

  There were nods and grunts, no dissenters.

  —Off you go now, I said.—You’re a grand-looking body of men and you’ll take some beating when you have the uniforms on you. See you tonight and bring your shovels with you. And go out across the haggard so you’re not seen from the gate.

  The compliment would get two or three more to turn up; it had cost nothing and it hadn’t been much of a lie. That and the prospect of uniforms and the excitement of going home the secret way across the haggard; they’d be good for another couple of boys.

  —Good day, Captain.

  —See you later, I said.

  I wasn’t a captain, or any other rank.

  —You don’t exist, Collins had said.—Do you understand that, Henry?

  —I do, I said.

  —We’ll give you your rank when it’s all over.

  —I’m not pushed, I said.—It’s all me bollix.

  But I called myself Captain for these lads. It made me important in their eyes and it was the rank that a lot of old land agents had had back in the days when they’d had the power to evict and destroy. Here was I, one of their own, carrying the agents’ old label.

  —Ivan, I said as he passed me on his way to the barn door.

  —That’s me, right enough.

  —I want to talk to you.

  —And I want to listen to you, Captain.

  We went back across the yard to the house. We sat down in the kitchen. Ivan worked the bellows and the new heat poured over us. The fireplace was as big as a room. We sat on stools right inside it. There was a picture of Robert Emmet, darkened by the years and smoke, on the wall beside me. There were old postcards stuck in behind it; there was one of all the 1916 leaders and a Patrick’s Day card from America, a man with a pig under his arm.

  —Good lads, good. Good.

  Old Missis O’Shea was climbing down from the attic.

  —That’s a great blaze you’ve got going there. Use up all the turf on me. We’re surrounded by the blessed stuff.

  She looked at Ivan.

  —You’re very welcome, young fellow, she said.—I won’t ask you your name. That way, when they ask me for it, I’ll be able to say I don’t know and not have the lie hanging over me, especially at my age.

  —It would be a lie, said Ivan,—and a whopper. Sure, I’m the only nephew you’ve got that’s called Ivan.

  —Lord God, Ivan Reynolds, but you’re a terrible spoiler. Your mammy was right, God rest her. You’re a desperate wee melt.

  —She never said that about me.

  —Maybe it was one of your brothers she was talking about, said old Missis O’Shea.—Or your father.

  —It was probably him, said Ivan.

  They were fond of each other.

  —You’ll eat me out of house and home, now that you’re here, said old Missis O’Shea.

  —I will, said Ivan.—And I have the captain here to help me with the work.

  —A captain no less, said old Missis O’Shea.—Don’t tell me the name now. It’s dangerous enough knowing the rank. And you’ll have a mouthful of tea with it.

  —Not for me, I said.—I hate the stuff.

  —Sure, don’t I know it, Captain, she said.—I just love the way you keep saying it.

  While old Missis O’Shea murdered the food at the fire Ivan and myself shifted our stools to the window and got down to talking. He listed off the useful men to know and the men to stay away from. He filled me in on the geography and the politics of Rusg -


  —Rock solid, boy. To a man and cat.

  and the four or five parishes around it -

  —Go-boys, the lot of them.

  while the smell of old Missis O’Shea’s cooking joined the heat coming from the fire.

  —D’you like the girls, Captain? he said.

  —They’re better than the boys, I said.

  —Now you’re talking, he said.—No competition. There’s some nice republican young ones around these parts and one or two game ones with no interest in politics at all. I’ll point you at them.

  —Thanks for the offer, Ivan, I said.—But I’ve never needed help on that score.

  —You’re not a captain for nothing, Captain.

  —You’ll be a captain yourself one of these days.

  —Please God, he said.

  —Are ye too busy to sit at the table, Captain? said old Missis O’Shea.

  —We are, said Ivan.

  —It wasn’t you I was talking to, but I don’t hear the captain disagreeing with you. You’ll have it in your hand, so, she said.—Sure, it’s hardly a dinner at all.

  It was incredible, the nicest stuff I’d ever tasted. Griddle cakes, and a bit of cabbage that was perfect. I wasn’t used to fresh vegetables and, judging by the grub that had come my way in friendly houses all over the country, not many other people were either. Stirabout and slidderjacks and cakes of rough bread the size of bike tyres, flitches of cured bacon that had been hanging for centuries from hooks in the kitchen ceiling, spuds, spuds and more of them, good, indifferent and rotten, and strong, rough tea a small-sized rat could dance on. I wasn’t complaining. It was grand and it was filling and as good and better than what I’d grown up on. I’d never known freshness and surprise, so I didn’t miss it. Until I put old Missis O’Shea’s griddle cake into, even before I put it into my mouth, when its steam grabbed my nose hair and fucked it.