The Heather Blazing

  “Were they all Protestants?” Eamon asked.

  “They were,” his uncle said. “And they were all up to their neck in the British army who were on the rampage here, and the British Legion and the King and the Queen. It’s all gone now. At least we got rid of that, whatever else we did.”

  * * *

  The following Sunday afternoon Lemass’s friend drove up to the house in a Morris Oxford. He left another man waiting in the passenger seat. Eamon answered the door and ushered him into the front room before going into the back room to whisper to his father and tell him who had come. The man said that he didn’t want tea or a drink. He had to make calls before he went back to Dublin, do official party business for the election.

  He explained that Eamon could go to UCD and do an Arts degree as his father had done, but in his second year he could study to be a barrister as well.

  “There’d be help available if you needed it,” he said.

  “We’ll be able to take care of that,” his father said.

  “There would be a lot of work for him once he was qualified. But let me know anyway. Mr. de Valera, incidentally, heard the speech. He thought it was very good.”

  When the man had gone Eamon tried to imagine de Valera listening to his speech, but he could not. He wondered if it were true. De Valera had seemed so remote.

  “What age is de Valera?” he asked his father later that evening.

  His father thought for a while. “He’ll be seventy next year,” he said.

  * * *

  Eamon returned to school on Monday, but he still went down to party headquarters every evening. He tried to talk to Carmel O’Brien as much as he could.

  “That was a great speech,” she said. “It’s a pity you didn’t talk like that when we went canvassing.”

  “You knew all of the people,” he said.

  “But I can’t talk in public as well as you.”

  On the night before the vote they went canvassing again. This time he spoke on the doorsteps as well. It was easier and he felt happy with her. He liked the way she seemed to sympathize with people and talk to them naturally. At the end of the evening they walked back to the headquarters.

  “Do you know something?” she said to him. “You’re the most careful person I’ve ever come across. I’ve met you every day for three weeks and I know nothing about you. You could only talk about the election. Do you never think about anything else?”

  He looked at her, much taken aback.

  “I thought that we got on very well?” he said.

  “I don’t know what you’re thinking. You’re miles away,” she replied.

  He tried to laugh but he felt uneasy at being spoken to like that. No one had ever used that tone with him before. When he met her at the count, where she was helping her father with the tally, he kept away from her at first, but it was hard not to notice her.

  “We’ve increased our vote in Ballyhogue, isn’t that a good one?” She squeezed his waist and laughed. “It was your speech that did it. But we’re down in Monageer.”

  He sat in the back seat of the car with her on the way home. He was nervous and excited beside her. Eventually, he took her hand and held it. Her skin was soft: he thought about her body, her breasts, her legs and her long neck. He edged her close to him and kissed her on the side of the face and then she turned towards him and let him kiss her on the mouth.

  Part Three

  CHAPTER ONE

  Eamon Redmond stood at the window looking down at the river which was deep brown after days of rain. He watched the colour, the mixture of muds and water, and the small currents and pockets of movement within the flow. It was the last day of term; later, he was due to sit in the Special Criminal Court. He brought a chair over to the window so that he could read the morning newspaper by clear daylight. He listened through the open window to the sound of gulls over the hum of traffic, and looked out again at the muddy water.

  In the evening he planned to drive alone to Cush, unless, for some reason, the court needed to sit another day. Maybe he was wrong to go down alone so soon; it would be hard. He would try to cook for himself, keep the place tidy. He closed his eyes.

  He was tired because he had drunk some wine and a few brandies in the Stephen’s Green Club the previous evening, at the invitation of an historian whom he had known for some years, who was doing research now on the response of the Irish government to the violence in Northern Ireland. The historian was looking for leads, and he wanted certain things confirmed: that meetings had taken place, that individuals had been involved, that differences of opinion had occurred.

  Eamon had told the historian very little. He had written a report for the government, which he presented early in 1972, on the ways in which the government should respond to a concerted campaign by the IRA. He had written a number of interim reports over the previous two years, one of which recommended non-jury courts for IRA cases.

  Many of his submissions, as he explained to the historian, dealt with technical matters he had been asked to investigate, such as the relationship between the army and the police in border areas, the safety of electrical installations and water supply, the security of the radio and television stations. With a small team of civil servants he had reported on these matters, and he was prepared to talk to the historian about them, while making clear that he could not show him the actual reports. They were now, he imagined, out of date, but some of the information in them was still current and confidential.

  There were two chapters in his report which the historian was only vaguely aware of; no one, beyond those who were entitled to see the report, had ever read these chapters. He had been told several times that they had been influential and had helped to shape government policy on security throughout the 1970s.

  He had written an analysis of Irish nationalist feeling for the government. He had warned never to allow public opinion to become inflamed in the Republic by events within its own borders. The north, he argued, must be presented as a different society, a place apart. The dangers, he wrote, would come from the creation of causes and martyrs, which would stir up latent nationalist feeling in the South. Thus, there must be no trouble within the prisons of the Republic, no riots or hunger strikes or bad publicity. Also, he wrote, the courts and the police must be seen to be beyond reproach, even in an emergency. He suggested a special three-judge appeal court to examine cases in which there was a lingering doubt. He proposed that the Minister for Justice should have the right to refer cases to this court. He was still sure that this was a necessity in the Republic, but it had never been done.

  He knew that this chapter of the report would seem too cold and calculating, too pragmatic and cynical so many years later, when the emergency was over. He suggested as they sat at the table that there was nothing of any interest in all of this, and yet, for security reasons, it could not be released. His companion did not know that there was also another chapter in the report which outlined, without comment, how foreign governments had dealt with terrorism and how certain measures had succeeded and others failed. At the time, when he worked on the report, Eamon was sure that internment in the Republic would fail, would inflame both nationalist and liberal feelings and would not improve security. He had tried to show how repression had not worked elsewhere. He had been briefed in detail by British and French security experts who had worked in Israel and Algeria. He did not want this to come to light, felt that it would be misunderstood and knew that the historian would seize on this should he become aware of it.

  He had also included a section on how the courts, in particular the Supreme Court, could become a difficulty for any administration trying to combat terrorism. But this had been seen only by the Taoiseach and the Minister for Justice. In the mid-1970s the Taoiseach’s department had assured him that his memo on this matter had been destroyed and was no longer on file.

  The historian was a clever man, watchful and worldly. He would bide his time, picking up bits and pieces from such dinner
s and social encounters. He had published very little, and Eamon wondered if his work on government policy in relation to terrorism would ever appear.

  After dinner they sat at a side table: there was no more to be said about the report, they had exhausted the possibilities. The waiter came with brandies as they began to talk about their families, Eamon about Enniscorthy and his family’s involvement in 1916 and the War of Independence, the historian about his father’s memories of the burning of Cork city.

  “Was your father in the Civil War?” the historian asked him.

  “He must have been. I know one uncle was on hunger strike, but, to be honest, I don’t know. It was never talked about. Nineteen sixteen was mentioned all the time, and the Tan War as well, but not the Civil War. I know that my father knew who did some of the killings in Enniscorthy, a man told him once in a pub, but he swore that he would never tell anyone. And he told me years ago about how they took over the Protestant church in Enniscorthy during the Civil War, and they made mock sermons during the night, but when the shooting started one man shouted out ‘Watch the ricoshits lads!’ and they all thought this was funny. He told me the story as though he was there, but I never asked him. If you asked him he would grow silent. It was a very bitter time for them.”

  “They were a strange generation,” the historian said.

  The two men had a few more drinks as they talked about the past. Eamon remembered the story about Cathal Brugha and his father’s going to Dublin to get permission to have the Big Houses burned. But he said nothing about it. He listened to a story about Michael Collins, nodding and encouraging the historian to go on, all the time thinking back to that evening in his grandmother’s house when he first heard the story. He kept listening, more and more sure that he should not mention the story about his father and Cathal Brugha, that he should consign it to the past, to silence, as his father had done with the names of the men who did the killings in Enniscorthy. He smiled as the historian came to the end of his story, and stood up, saying it was time to go.

  * * *

  He sat at the window in the chamber in the Four Courts the following morning. His report was history now; all the lessons had been learned; the state had been protected and would survive. He looked again at the river, the sunlight on the brown water.

  His tipstaff came to say that the Gardai were waiting for him at the side entrance to the court. He did not enjoy being driven to the Special Court under armed protection, but even though there had been no attempted breakout from Green Street in some years, it was felt that vigilance must be maintained. He walked down to the unmarked, but clearly recognizable, police car and sat in the front seat. He had learned not to speak to the Guards; some of them had given evidence in his court over the years and, no doubt, would do so again, and he felt it was better if he did not know them. The two Guards in the back seat were detectives and carried machine guns. The driver started the car and drove out past the Land Registry towards the Bridewell, and then along North King Street where army sentries had posted themselves at the junction with Green Street.

  He was the senior judge on the three-man court. He knew one of the other judges and liked him; the third man, a recently appointed Circuit Court judge, had been a senior counsel specializing in insurance cases. All three now donned their gowns and wigs as they waited for the court to begin.

  As soon as they began to listen to the evidence it became clear that it was not a simple case. Eamon put his head in his hands and re-read the statements in front of him. Three men, two from Monaghan and one from Armagh, were accused of membership of the IRA, of possession of firearms, of shooting at a Garda in the course of his duty, of attempted murder, of resisting arrest. It seemed when he checked through the Garda statements that there was only real evidence against one of the accused in the shooting charge. He wondered why the charges against the other two had not been dropped. He checked again, as he continued to listen to the oral evidence. He noticed, with satisfaction, that his younger colleague was checking as well.

  The defence counsel was already questioning the Guard who had pursued and arrested the three men. He decided to interrupt the cross-examination.

  “Mr. Roche,” he said to the counsel, “I am taking it that all three of your clients are pleading not guilty to the charge of attempted murder, is that correct?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Mr. Miller,” he turned to the counsel for the prosecution, “I take it that you will be producing evidence against all three in the attempted murder charge.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “All three?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “You can proceed then,” he said. It seemed to him that they would have to drop charges against two of the accused very quickly if they did not want to waste most of the day. He presumed that his two colleagues understood the reason for his interruption, and he was pleased when he noticed one of the junior counsel on the prosecution side leaving the court, clearly to seek an instruction on whether they should drop the charges against two of the accused.

  He looked through the submissions again, but it was not clear if all three were armed, nor was it clear if the Gardai had established a case against all three through seeing them using the guns or checking fingerprints afterwards. He would not accept a charge of attempted murder without precise evidence. The prosecuting counsel was getting nowhere in his cross-examination. He wondered, as he listened to the counsel, if there was an effort being made to change the way in which the Special Criminal Court dealt with attempted murder, and the evidence necessary to prove it. If so, he would stop it immediately. The counsel was now questioning the main Garda witness. He interrupted the counsel again.

  “Garda Power,” he asked, “did you see all three men armed? I am taking it that only one gun was fired. Did you see all three men handle that one gun?”

  “They all had guns, your honour.”

  “No, listen again. Did you see them handling the gun which was fired. You can look at them, they’re sitting up there. Did you see them handling the arms?”

  “I saw Fingleton taking a shot at my colleague.”

  “And the other two?”

  “They were also armed.”

  “Did they shoot?”

  “No, your honour.”

  “Mr. Miller,” he turned again to the counsel, who was flicking through his notes, “will you be producing evidence that the second and third accused are guilty of attempted murder?”

  “I am trying to establish that, my lord.”

  “I know what you’re trying to establish. What I wish to know is what evidence you will use to establish it.”

  “I will establish it in my cross-examination of witnesses, my lord.”

  “We will attend to you with great patience,” he looked sharply at the counsel.

  He knew that the counsel was bluffing, waiting for instructions on whether to drop the charges or not. He knew that since the main witness had not actually seen two of the defendants shooting, and only one gun was fired, then they could not be found guilty of attempted murder. The prosecution should drop the charges very soon, he thought, because the longer they continued with them the more they would damage the case.

  As soon as the court reconvened after lunch the counsel for the prosecution stood up to say that they were dropping the charges of attempted murder against the second and third accused.

  “Mr. Miller,” Eamon stopped him before he had finished, “am I to take it that you have been wasting the time of this court?”

  “No, my lord.”

  “I asked you this morning what evidence you had. It was clear this morning that you had no evidence, at least to me and my colleagues. Was it not clear to you and your colleagues?”

  “No, my lord.”

  “I see. Proceed with the case, and do so in the full knowledge that this court’s patience with you is very short.”

  He watched the first accused as he was cross-examined. He was a small man, in his la
te thirties. He did not look like a man with strong political convictions. And his evidence, too, had that guarded, puzzled quality as though he had been brought in from the street, as though he had never been involved in the IRA in his life.

  Counsel for the defence was now claiming that the three men were arrested north of the border, and that their arrest was illegal. Argument continued over this for a while, but it seemed a minor detail. There was no doubt but that shots were fired, and that one of the accused, probably the one identified by the Garda, had fired it. His fingerprints, indeed, were on the gun which had been fired. But was this attempted murder? The Garda had not been hit. This was the decision the three judges would have to make.

  The defence was making very little headway, and had counsel pleaded guilty to lesser charges it might have been easier. By half past three it seemed as though the case could be decided very quickly. The second and third could be found guilty of illegal possession of firearms and the first with attempt to endanger life. He would give the first six years, and the others four. His colleagues, he thought, might want to give harsher sentences. He did not think that they would take long to decide.

  When the hearing was finished they retired to the room behind the court. There was a fresh pot of tea and some cups and saucers on the table in the room.

  They sat down and began to discuss the case.

  “All three were in the car. All three had guns,” the younger man said. The older man did not speak.

  “What do you think, Mr. Redmond?” he asked.

  “We must take the first accused, Fingleton, and the other two separately, as they face separate charges. Do we believe that Fingleton is guilty of attempted murder?”

  “He fired the gun at the Guard,” the younger man said.

  “Correct,” said the older man.

  “Is he guilty of all the lesser charges?” he asked.