‘Why?’
‘So that I could bury him with decency,’ she said.
The reply took him by surprise. He understood now why his questions had upset her. But the fact remained that he could still not be sure that the scheme was not the desperate alternative.
‘What she did was edifying and Christian,’ he said, ‘but if it has led her to such despair that she has allowed her children to be taken away from her, then it would have been better for all of us if she had kept her money.’
The woman’s sobbing became uncontrollable. He took the broken umbrella under his arm.
‘Forgive me for the upset I have caused you,’ he said. He went to the door. What he had said struck him as bald and unpitying. He had not meant it that way.
‘Please don’t feel I am too harsh,’ he added. ‘The fate of these little children is an urgent and terrible charge on all of us.’
He closed the door and strode across the landing to knock once again at the Fitzpatrick’s apartment. There was still no answer. Enough time had been lost already. He went down quickly into the street.
Merchandise cluttered the South Wall of the river. At the berth of the one shipping company which had remained open by refusing to join the Employers’ Federation a single ship was working. To the right and left of it idle ships waited through flood tide and ebb tide. Larkin had said they would be left there until the bottoms were rusted out of them. Across the river, about the Embarkation sheds of the North Wall, crowds had gathered. Father O’Connor made for Butt Bridge. There were crowds at Liberty Hall also, he noticed. If there was to be a battle for the children, his help would be even more important. No room for shirkers now.
He reached the demonstrators excited and out of breath. Their numbers reassured him, their banners roused his admiration. He sought out the priest who was obviously in command.
‘Good evening, Father,’ he said. ‘I’m Father O’Connor of St. Brigid’s.’
‘A parish in which there has been a lot of activity,’ the other said. ‘Your assistance will be most welcome to us.’ They shook hands.
‘How can I help?’
‘By keeping your eyes open. You may recognise some of the parish children. Or their parents may be known to you. Your presence in itself will be an invaluable addition.’
‘What can I do?’
‘I’d like a priest with each lay contingent. It reassures them. You could take charge of the group over there. Come and I’ll introduce you.’
They went over together to some twenty men, members of a Branch of the Ancient Order of Hibernians. He was asked to assist them by scrutinising any children who might arrive as passengers. There was little conversation. After a polite exchange the leader turned to the others and said:
‘Now, men—a hymn while we’re waiting. Let’s have “Faith of our Fathers”. All together—One . . . two . . . three.’ They assumed grave expressions and lifted their voices in unison.
‘Faith of our Fathers living still
In spite of dungeon, fire and sword
Oh, how our hearts beat high with joy
When e’er we hear that glorious word
Faith of our Fathers, holy faith,
We will be true to thee till death
We will be true to thee till death.’
The gulls rose in alarm from roofs and the rigging of ships, and the other groups, as the voices rebounded off corrugated iron sheds and the walls of warehouses, took fire and joined in, swelling the sound of the second verse.
‘Faith of our Fathers, guile and force
To do thee bitter wrong unite,
But Erin’s saints shall fight for us
And keep undimmed thy blessed light
Faith of our Fathers, holy faith
We will be true to thee till death
We will be true to thee till death.’
The hooter of the one ship that was working across the river at the South Wall gave a long wail which swamped the voices and for a moment shattered all tonality. Its echo ran the length of the river, a groan of anguish which surged past Ringsend and the empty marshalling yards, spreading between the strands of Dollymount and the Shellybanks and Merrion, until it passed the estuary and became a ghost above the lonely lightships far out in the Irish Sea. Father O’Connor, unused to the procedures of the riverside, felt the sudden anger that mounted in the groups about him and wondered if it had been blown derisively.
There was the usual queue at the soup kitchen. Yearling spared the waiting women a glance, noting the jamjars and bottles and tin cans in their hands, then followed Mathews through the door of Liberty Hall and up the stairs to the second floor. It was dirty. The mud of countless feet had dried on the wooden stairway and on the landing. It smelled of people. Poverty, he had noticed before, had its own peculiar smell. A man’s station could be judged by what the body exhaled. Expensive odours of brandy and cigars; sour odours of those who nourished nature with condensed milk and tea. In an outer room were two men he recognised. One Orpen the painter, whom he knew well; the other Sinclair, an art dealer, who was said to love the fine things in his shop so much that he was constantly refusing to sell them.
Mathews excused himself and went into the inner office. Yearling approached Orpen.
‘My dear Orpen, what are you doing here?’
‘Some sketches,’ Orpen said. ‘Have you been to the food kitchens?’
‘No,’ Yearling confessed, ‘this is my first visit.’
‘Then let me show you these.’
Yearling examined cartoons of faces and figures. They wore skull-like heads and raised skeleton arms towards a woman who was ladling out soup.
‘How do you find them?’ Orpen asked.
‘Depressing.’
‘You should see the reality.’
‘Do you come here a lot?’
‘Every other day. One meets everybody here.’
‘So I gather,’ Yearling agreed. ‘I read a suggestion in The Leader that there should be a branch for intellectuals in Liberty Hall.’
‘Larkin is working night and day,’ Orpen said. ‘He expects to be summoned before the court any day now to answer a charge of sedition. They’re bound to convict him.’
Mathews returned to the room and joined them.
‘The children are on the next floor. Will you come up?’ Yearling followed him. The air was pungent with the smell from the cauldrons in the basement. They entered a room where about twenty children were being prepared for their journey. Some women were helping them to food. There were two men among them whom Mathews consulted.
‘There are pickets on the North Wall,’ he said, ‘there isn’t a hope of getting through if they are determined about stopping us. We’ve got to distract their attention by sending some of the children to Kingsbridge Station. The plan is to give them time to follow. Then we rush the rest of the children to the North Wall and try to get them aboard while the way is clear.’
‘I don’t think it will work,’ one of the men said, ‘there are thousands of them.’
‘Are you willing to try?’ Mathews asked.
‘Of course,’ the man answered.
‘So am I,’ Mathews told him. He looked at his watch.
‘If you will take the decoy party now,’ he suggested, ‘I’ll go with the others in an hour’s time. Later on your group can go by train from Amiens Street to Belfast and we’ll ship them out that way.’
‘You’ll need help,’ the man said. ‘Skeffington here could go along with you. The trouble is he’s a pacifist and not much good in a fight. He just stands still and lets them hammer him.’