‘You know very well where I’m taking them,’ Mathews said.
‘I know where you would wish to take them,’ the priest said, ‘but we are here to prevent it.’
‘By what right?’
‘By God’s right,’ the priest shouted at him. There was an angry movement. The slogans were raised and began to wave wildly. ‘Proselytisers,’ ‘Save the Children.’ Someone bawled in Yearling’s ear: ‘Kidnapper Larkin.’
‘I am not Mr. Larkin,’ he said.
‘You’re one of his tools,’ the voice said. ‘You’re all his henchmen.’
A loud cheering distracted him and he looked around. The cabs which had set out earlier for Kingsbridge were returning. They cantered in single file along the quay, their banners waving in response to those surrounding the children. At a distance behind them a group of Larkinites from Liberty Hall followed. Yearling saw the police parting to let the cabs through, then closing ranks again against the Larkinites. The situation was becoming explosive. He said so to Mathews.
‘These children will get hurt.’
‘Hold steady,’ Mathews said.
They both watched the Larkinites, who had now reached the police cordon and were parleying. An Inspector waved them back but it had no effect. The crowd about Yearling began to sing ‘Faith of our Fathers’ once again. Almost immediately the battle between the Larkinites and the police began. The priest became excited once more.
‘I command you to hand over these children,’ he said to Mathews.
‘Have the parents of Dublin no longer any rights?’ Mathews asked.
‘If you persist in refusing, I’ll not be responsible for what happens.’
‘But of course you’ll be responsible,’ Mathews said, ‘and if they suffer hurt it will be your responsibility also.’
‘Seize the children,’ the priest shouted to his followers.
Father O’Connor, dismounting from one of the cabs, saw the mêlée about the party of children but failed to distinguish the figure of Yearling. When his attention switched to the police he found the Larkinites were breaking through. He gathered his contingent about him and began to shout instructions at them.
‘Stand firm men,’ he ordered. ‘Stand firm for God and His Holy Faith.’
As the Larkinites broke through the police guard he mounted the footstep of one of the cabs and waved his broken umbrella above their heads. All about him bodies heaved and tossed. Police and people struggled in several groups. He stood clear of the fighting himself but kept up a flow of encouragement for his followers. He felt no shame or hesitation. This was a battle for God.
Hands seized Yearling and pulled him away from the children he was escorting. He saw Mathews some yards ahead of him being manhandled in the same way.
‘Damn you for zealots,’ he shouted and began to fight back. The fury of his counter attack drove them back momentarily, but they were too many for him. They crowded about him on every side. Hands tore the lapels of his jacket, his shirt, his trouser legs. He lashed out blindly all the time until at last, exhausted, he fell to the ground. Mathews and the other men and the children had disappeared. He was alone in a circle of demonstrators. He felt blood in his mouth, explored delicately and discovered a broken tooth. Blood was running down from his forehead also, blinding one eye. He found his pocket handkerchief and tried to staunch it. He had no fear now of the faces leaning over him. A wild anger exhilarated him.
‘Damn you for ignorant bigots,’ he shouted at them, ‘damn you for a crowd of cowardly obscurantists.’
Father O’Connor saw the police gaining control once more. The Larkinites were driven back up the quays, his own followers regrouped and began to cheer. To his left he saw the priest from Donnybrook leading the children away. The demonstrators were grouped solidly about them. He got down from the footstep and went over.
‘We succeeded,’ the priest said to him.
‘Thanks be to God,’ he answered. He searched the faces as the children passed but could find none that answered to his memory of the Fitzpatricks. For the moment at any rate they were safe. He thanked God for that too and began to push through the crowd. They gave him passage and he acknowledged grimly.
‘Who have we over there?’ he asked, his attention caught by a dense ring of men.
‘One of the kidnappers,’ a man told him. He pushed his way into the centre and recognised their prisoner with horror.
‘Yearling,’ he said.
Yearling had difficulty in seeing him. The blood was still blinding his right eye. He dabbed again with the handkerchief and realised who it was.
‘My poor fellow,’ Father O’Connor said, ‘let me help you.’
‘Call off your hymn howling blackguards,’ Yearling demanded.
Father O’Connor motioned the crowd back.
‘Let me take you home at once,’ he offered, ‘I have a cab just across the road.’
‘No,’ Yearling said, ‘I intend to walk to a cab myself.’
‘You’re in no condition.’
‘I am in excellent condition,’ Yearling assured him, ‘let the city look at your handiwork.’
‘Please,’ Father O’Connor begged, ‘let me help you.’
‘I don’t need it.’
Yearling raised himself to his feet and tried to arrange his torn clothes. He had the appearance of a bloodied scarecrow. Father O’Connor offered his hand in assistance but Yearling stepped away. He stared at Father O’Connor.
‘I see you’ve been on active service,’ he remarked.
Father O’Connor, following Yearling’s eyes, found they were fixed on his umbrella and remembered its broken handle.
‘You misunderstand completely,’ he said, ‘let me explain.’
‘You have been beating some unfortunate about the head, I suppose,’ Yearling said. ‘Do you regret it wasn’t me?’
‘Yearling, please. This is dreadful. You must listen to me.’
But Yearling turned his back. He began to limp his way towards Liberty Hall.
‘Don’t interfere with him,’ Father O’Connor said to those around him. ‘Please don’t interfere with him in any way. Let him pass.’
He began to cry.
‘Let him pass,’ he repeated.
The priest from Donnybrook marked the occasion with an address to his followers. He reminded them that the demonstration had been unorganised and unprepared. ‘It shows the love you have for the Catholic children of this city,’ he told them. The great crowd cheered him. Then they formed in processional order and marched bareheaded through the streets, singing ‘Hail, Glorious St. Patrick’. Rashers and Hennessy watched them passing and saw Father O’Connor marching with them. They looked at each other silently.
Father O’Connor tried to join in the singing but found his thoughts pulled elsewhere. He had lost a friend for the sake of the children. He was prepared to sacrifice more. But it was hard. He offered to God the ache in his heart, the humiliation which made his cheeks burn. He offered to God also the coming loneliness and isolation.
The newspapers carried another letter from the Archbishop. It read:
Archbishop’s House
Dublin
28th October 1912
Very Reverend and Dear Father,
In view of the exceptional distress resulting from the long continued and widespread deadlock in the industries of Dublin, more especially in some of those parishes that are least able from their own unaided resources to meet so grave an emergency, it occurs to me that the case is one calling for an exceptional remedy.
The children, innocent victims of the conflict, have a special claim upon us, and I think the best way of helping them is to strengthen the funds by means of which food and clothing is provided for the thousands of school going children who, even in the best of times, are in need of such assistance. Those funds, fairly adequate in ordinary times, have now been subjected to an excessive strain. In a number of cases they are practically exhausted. As usual in times of distress, the proselytisers are energetically active. If they are to be effectively combated, it must be by a combined effort, each of us doing what he can to help the poor in their hard struggle.