Hickey sat.
Roth said, “Are you Brian Flynn, the man who calls himself Finn MacCumail?”
Hickey leaned back and made himself comfortable. “No, I’m John Hickey, the man who calls himself John Hickey. You’ve heard of me, of course, and before I’m through you’ll know me well enough.” He looked around the table. “Please introduce yourselves in turn.”
Roth looked a bit surprised, then introduced himself again and pointed to a reporter. Each man and woman in the press room, including, at Hickey’s request, the technicians, gave his name.
Hickey nodded pleasantly to each one. He said, “I’m sorry I kept you all waiting. I hope my delay didn’t cause the representatives of the governments involved to leave.”
Roth said, “They won’t be present.”
Hickey feigned an expression of hurt and disappointment. “Oh, I see…. Well, I suppose they don’t want to be seen in public with a man like me.” He smiled brightly. “Actually, I don’t want to be associated with them either.” He laughed, then produced his pipe and lit it. “Well, let’s get on with it, then.”
Roth motioned to a technician, and the lights went on. Another technician took a light reading near Hickey’s face while a woman approached him with makeup. Hickey pushed her away gently, and she moved off quickly.
Roth said, “Is there any particular format you’d like us to follow?”
“Yes. I talk and you listen. If you listen without nodding off or picking your noses, I’ll answer questions afterward.”
A few reporters laughed.
The technicians finished the adjustments in their equipment, and one of them yelled, “Mr. Hickey, can you say something so we can get a voice reading?”
“Voice reading? All right, I’ll sing you a verse from ‘Men Behind the Wire,’ and when I’m through, I want the cameras on. I’m a busy man tonight.” He began to sing in a low, croaky voice. “Through the little streets of BelfastIn the dark of early morn,British soldiers came maraudingWrecking little homes with scorn.Heedless of the crying children,Dragging fathers from their beds,Beating sons while helpless mothersWatch the blood flow from their heads—”
“Thank you, Mr. Hickey—”
Hickey sang the chorus—“Armored cars, and tanks and gunsCame to take away our sonsBut every man will stand behindThe men behind the wii-re!”
“Thank you, sir.”
The camera light came on. Someone yelled, “On the air!”
Roth looked into the camera and spoke. “Good evening. This is David—” Hickey’s singing came from off camera:“Not for them a judge or jury,Or indeed a crime at all.Being Irish means they’re guilty,So we’re guilty one and a-lll—”
Roth looked to his right. “Thank you—”“Round the world the truth will echo,Cromwell’s men are here again.England’s name again is sulliedIn the eyes of honest me-nnn—”
Roth glanced sideways at Hickey, who seemed to have finished. Roth looked back at the camera. “Good evening, I’m David Roth, and we’re broadcasting live.. . as you can see … from the press room of Saint Patrick’s Cathedral. Not too far from where we now sit, an undisclosed number of IRA gunmen—”
“Fenians!” yelled Hickey.
“Yes … Fenians … have seized the Cathedral and hold four hostages: Cardinal— ”
“They know all that!” shouted Hickey.
Roth looked upset. “Yes … and with us tonight is Mr. John Hickey, one of the … Fenians….”
“Put the camera on me, Jerry,” said Hickey. “Over here—that’s right.”
Hickey smiled into the camera and began, “Good evening and Happy Saint Patrick’s Day. I am John Hickey, poet, scholar, soldier, and patriot.” He settled back into his chair. “I was born in 1905 or thereabouts to Thomas and Mary Hickey in a small stone cottage outside of Clonakily in County Cork. In 1916, when I was a wee lad, I served my country as a messenger in the Irish Republican Army. Easter Monday, 1916, found me in the beseiged General Post Office in Dublin with the poet Padraic Pearse, the labor leader James Connolly, and their men, including my sainted father, Thomas. Surrounding us were the Irish Fusiliers and the Irish Rifles, lackeys of the British Army.”
Hickey relit his pipe, taking his time, then went on. “Padraic Pearse read a proclamation from the steps of the Post Office, and his words ring in my ears to this day.” He cleared his throat and adopted a stentorian tone as he quoted: “‘Irishmen and Irishwomen—in the name of God and the dead generations from which she receives her old tradition of nationhood, Ireland, through us, summons her children to her flag and strikes for freedom.’”
Hickey went on, weaving a narrative blend of history and fancy, facts and personal prejudices, interjecting himself into some of the more famous events of the decades following the Easter Monday rebellion.
Most of the reporters leaned forward in interest; some looked impatient or puzzled.
Hickey was serenely unaware of them or of the cameras and lights. From time to time he would mention the Cathedral to keep everyone’s interest piqued, then would swing into a long polemic against the British and American governments or the governments of the divided Ireland, always careful to exclude the people of these lands from his wrath.
He spoke of his sufferings, his wounds, his martyred father, his dead friends, a lost love, recalling each person by name. He beamed as he spoke of his revolutionary triumphs and frowned as he spoke darkly of the future of an Ireland divided. Finally he yawned and asked for a glass of water.
Roth took the opportunity to ask, “Can you tell us exactly how you seized the Cathedral? What are your demands? Would you kill the hostages and destroy the Cathedral if—”
Hickey held up his hand. “I’m not up to that part yet, lad. Where was I? Oh, yes. Nineteen hundred and fifty-six. In that year the IRA, operating from the south, began a campaign against the British-occupied six counties of the North. I was leading a platoon of men and women near the Doon Forest, and we were ambushed by a whole regiment of British paratroopers backed by the murderous Royal Ulster Constabulary.” Hickey went on.
Langley watched him from the corner, then looked around at the news people. They seemed unhappy, but he suspected that John Hickey was doing better with the public than with the media. Hickey had a hard-driving narrative style … a simplicity and almost crudeness—sweating, smoking, and scratching—not seen on television in a long time.
John Hickey—sitting now in fifty million American living rooms—was becoming a folk hero. Langley would not have been surprised if someone told him that outside on Madison Avenue vendors were hawking John Hickey T-shirts.
CHAPTER 44
Brian Flynn stood near the altar and watched the television that had been placed on the altar.
Maureen, Father Murphy, and Baxter sat in the clergy pews, watching and listening silently. The Cardinal sat nearly immobile, staring down at the television from his throne, his fingertips pressed together.
Flynn stood in silence for a long while, then spoke to no one in particular. “Long-winded old man, isn’t he?”
Maureen looked at him, then asked, “Why didn’t you go yourself, Brian?”
Flynn stared at her but said nothing.
She leaned toward Father Murphy and said, “Actually, Hickey seems an effective speaker.” She paused thoughtfully. “I wish there were a way to get this kind of public platform without doing what they’ve done.”
Murphy added as he watched the screen, “He’s at least venting the frustrations of so many Irishmen, isn’t he?”