‘You know more about this city than I do,’ the sergeant conceded.
If there was danger behind those windows two uniformed police alone in the street would be the right provocation.
‘Our lads will be back to guard that power station,’ the sergeant added, ‘we can clear the street then.’
They stayed in the car and waited.
‘No need for alarm now,’ the sergeant assured the passengers, ‘there’s plenty of help at hand.’
‘Here they come,’ the conductor called.
The police were returning in marching order. They too had suffered severely, Father O’Connor saw. Many of the faces under the protecting helmets were bruised and bloodied. The sergeant stepped off the platform to consult with them. The column came to a halt. They talked for some moments before anything happened. Then Father O’Connor saw one of the upper windows being raised. A missile, aimed at the sergeant, flew wide and shattered the glass in the tram. The passengers began to panic and the sergeant, breaking off his consultation, climbed back on to the platform.
‘Keep your heads down,’ he instructed, ‘use your coats to protect them.’
The police outside, turning their attention to the houses, found window after window opening and had to crouch back under a rain of bricks and bottles. Father O’Connor felt the glass tumbling about his shoulders and heard the volume of the ambush filling the street outside. After a while the noise of missiles gave way to shouting. He looked up to find the police had been driven off and the car was surrounded again, this time by the rioters. They were pulling the sergeant and the conductor off the platform. The driver and the young policeman had already disappeared. He got to his feet in sudden panic and shouted at the crowd.
‘How dare you molest these people. I instruct you to behave yourselves.’
A piece of brick grazed the side of his forehead and he fell back. He felt blood on the stiff, white ring of his collar.
‘Hooligans,’ he said, staggering towards the platform, ‘you must stop at once.’
Those nearest reached out to take his arms.
‘It’s a priest,’ they appealed, ‘let him off the tram.’
‘He shouldn’t be on it,’ an angry voice shouted.
‘None of them should be on it,’ another yelled. There was an angry roar of agreement. Nevertheless Father O’Connor was helped down. They did not handle him ungently. He began to push his way through them. What had happened to the two policemen and the other passengers he did not know. The seething crowd had swallowed them up. Rough clothes that smelled of dirt and poverty brushed against him but made way when his cloth was recognised. The crowd thinned as he reached its outskirts and he found it possible to take his handkerchief from his pocket to staunch the blood that was oozing from the cut on his temple. At a great distance behind him, the tramcar was being hacked to pieces.
In the morning, while he was at breakfast, Father O’Sullivan made a point of joining him for a cup of tea.
‘How does it feel now?’ he asked with sympathy.
A thin bandage surrounded Father O’Connor’s head. Cotton wool and sticking plaster made a bulge over the wound.
‘It’s nothing,’ Father O’Connor said, ‘some scratches and a little bruising.’
The blow did not matter. The gravity lay in the insult to his cloth.
‘Have you seen the morning paper?’ he asked.
Father O’Sullivan had. But he picked it up and found again, prominent among the accounts of strike incidents, the headlines Father O’Connor was referring to.
‘Assault on Clergyman
Priest Manhandled
Sacrilegious Incident at Ringsend’
‘It is heartbreaking to be insulted by our own flock,’ Father O’Sullivan said.
‘These people have always insulted me,’ Father O’Connor answered, ‘since first I came to work for them. When I organised what little charity I could they rejected it and assaulted my helpers. The truth of the matter is they have been taught by scoundrels to covet what is not theirs.’
‘I’ve never known them to lay a finger on a priest before,’ Father O’Sullivan said. ‘Perhaps it was an accident.’
It had been no accident. The brick had been thrown in answer to his command to them to disperse. The situation was deplorable. Father O’Sullivan did not understand its gravity.
‘There are new elements who will stop at nothing,’ he said, ‘and they were present in that crowd.’
The door opened and Father Giffley came in.
‘Are you well this morning?’ he asked.
‘Quite well, thank you.’
‘No ill effects?’
‘None at all—thank God.’
‘Excellent,’ Father Giffley said. He turned to address Father O’Sullivan.
‘The incident is causing quite a stir,’ he said to him. ‘I’ve been coping already with an outburst of clerical fury. They all seem to be adopting Mr. Larkin’s slogan: “An Injury to One is the Concern of All”. Father O’Leary of The Messenger wants to print an article about it and the editor of The Irish Catholic wishes to have the full details for editorial comment. I told them we wanted no more about it.’
‘That was best,’ Father O’Connor agreed.
He hoped Father Giffley would not see the morning paper. It lay open on the table. With unusual complicity Father O’Sullivan picked it up as he rose from the table.
‘May I?’ he asked Father Giffley.
‘Take it, John. The Dublin press has become a ragbag of lies.’
‘Thank you,’ Father O’Sullivan said.
He left, taking the paper with him. Father O’Connor looked after him with gratitude.
‘I am glad you agree with me,’ Father Giffley said.
‘I have no desire for notoriety.’
‘I should hope not,’ the other acknowledged. Then he added:
‘It was unwise in the circumstances to board the car at all.’
‘I had to get home.’
That was not quite true. But how could he give a true account of something so inexplicable.
‘It only serves to inflame the people,’ Father Giffley added. ‘In the past we have usually managed to say the wrong things but contrived to do the right ones—at least the more humble clergy, such as ourselves. In this unfortunate business we must not appear to take sides.’
He was being rebuked again—this time for being assaulted and humiliated. He would say nothing. Nor would he give interviews. He would bend his will to that of his superior.
‘As you wish, Father,’ he said.
The following morning a letter from Mr. and Mrs. Bradshaw sympathised with him and conveyed their warm concern, while one from Yearling expressed his feeling of deep guilt at not having insisted on leaving him home. They, at least, held him in respect and affection. He was not altogether forsaken. During the next few days he followed the newspapers with close attention and wandered through the streets, watching and listening. He saw trams running under police protection and squadrons of police parading through the streets. The papers told him that Mr. Larkin had publicly burned Magistrate Swifte’s proclamation forbidding a mass meeting in Sackville Street on the coming Sunday and promised his followers that meeting would be held. ‘I care as much for Magistrate Swifte’, they reported him as saying, ‘as I do for the King of England.’ But they also reported that there was a warrant issued for his arrest, that all the police had been mobilised and that police pensioners were being recalled to do duty as gaolers. The military, too, were in readiness and standing by. For most, the battle to be fought was between Capital and Labour. For Father O’Connor it was one between Godlessness and God.