Текст книги "Stars and Stripes In Peril"

Автор книги: Harry Harrison

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 22 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

A NEW IRELAND IS BORN

It was Sunday, the first Sunday since the brief battle for Ireland had ended with victory for the American troops. Church bells sounded throughout the land and in many churches prayers of thanks were given, and a warm welcome extended to the soldiers who came to attend services. Smiles and handshakes and, even better, in the public houses there was drink all around and no mention of payment expected from these brave men from across the sea.

In the south.

In the north of Ireland, in Belfast and in the cities that the Americans had marched through, the Catholics went to mass in silence, not even glancing at each other as they trod the rain-slick streets. Not until they were inside, and the church doors locked, did they dare speak, voices raised in questions that had no answers.

In Portstewart the Catholic church was next to the sand dunes, behind the beach where the Americans had landed. The priest had stood in the doorway while the long lines of gray clad soldiers had come up from the beach and passed his church. Some had waved to him as they went by. Even others – to his amazement – had crossed themselves as they passed his church. Grinning from ear to ear, he had made the sign of the cross, blessing them over and over. Now it was time to speak about this to his parishioners. The talk died away as he stood in the pulpit.

“We must be silent – and we must be hopeful. Those are the first two things that we must do. Silent because we do not know Ireland’s fate. We have seen the American army move south to Belfast. We can hope them all success there, and in the rest of Ireland. Have they invaded the south as well? We do not know. We can only hope – and we can pray. Pray that these men from across the sea have come here to unite Ireland in a freedom never experienced before. We can pray, pray earnestly for the success of their cause. But we must pray in silence until we know Ireland’s fate. Bow our heads and pray in the hope that they bring to these beleaguered shores.”

In Belfast there was a coldness in the Protestant congregations that matched the chill wind and driving rain under the lowering October sky. General Robert E. Lee and his officers rode from the Townhall Building, where he had his headquarters, to May Street Presbyterian Church where the gentry attended Sunday service. A troop of cavalry trotted by and Lee returned their salute: he noticed the sentries posted outside the government buildings. Martial law was still in effect.

There was a rustle of movement and suppressed whispers when the American officers passed between the high pillars and entered the church. The Reverend Ian Craig was just entering the pulpit and, although a most loquacious man at all other times, he could at this moment think of nothing to say. The military men marched calmly to the front row, which quickly emptied of the few souls there, and seated themselves. The officers sat upright, their hats on their laps, and looked expectantly at Reverend Craig. The silence lengthened until he cleared his voice and spoke.

His sermon was about redemption and brotherly love and was – for him – unexpectedly short. Nor did he stand at the doorway as his parishioners left, as was his wont, but instead hurried into his vestry.

“How do, ma’am,” General Lee said tipping his hat to a black-garbed and elderly woman passing in the aisle. She gasped, looked horrified, and hurried on. As did all the others.

“It ’pears like they think we got something catching,” James Longstreet observed.

“Maybe we do,” Lee said, and smiled enigmatically.

When he reached his headquarters the officer of the day had a message for him.

“Delegation of the locals here to see you, General.”

“How many of them?”

“The Mayor, a Mr. John Lytle, and ten members of the Belfast City Council.”

“Too many. Tell them that I’ll see the mayor and one more of them, that’s enough. And before you let them in send for Surgeon Reynolds.”

He went through the accumulated reports on his desk until Reynolds came in.

“Sit down, Francis, and look military. The locals have finally decided that they want to talk to us.”

“Well that is surely nice to hear. I wonder what they will have to say for themselves.”

“Complaints, first off, I imagine.” Lee was right.

“Mayor Lytle, Councilor Mullan,” the sergeant said as he ushered them in.

Lytle, a plump man in a dark frock coat looked decidedly angry. “I protest, sir, at the exclusion of the councilors…”

“Please be seated, gentleman,” Lee interrupted. “I am General Lee, military commandant of this city. This is Surgeon Reynolds, on my staff. This city is under martial law and it is I who decide the size of all meetings both public and private. I am sure that you will understand that. Now – how may I be of service?”

Lytle sat down heavily in his chair and fingered his gold watchfob before he spoke. “You say martial law, sir? And why is that – and how long will it continue?”

“I have declared martial law because this country is in a state of war between two opposing military groups. Once all military opposition has been eliminated and peace restored, martial law will be lifted.”

“I protest. You have fired on this country’s armed forces—”

“That I have not done, sir.” Lee’s words were sharp, his voice cold. “This country is Ireland and I have engaged only British troops.”

“But we are British. We protest your presence here, your invasion…”

“If I might speak,” Reynolds said quietly. “I would like to point out some inescapable truths.”

“You’re not American,” Mullen said accusingly, hearing Reynolds’s Irish accent.

“Ahh, but I am, Mr. Mullen. Born in Derry and educated here in Belfast, but just as American as the general here. Ours is a nation of immigrants – as is yours.”

“Never!”

“I would like you to remember that you are a nationalist and a Protestant, whose ancestors immigrated here from Scotland some many hundreds of years ago. If you wish to return to that land, General Lee informs me that you are free to do so. If you remain here you will be fairly treated as will be all Irishman.”

“You’re a Teague,” Lytle snarled.

“No, sir,” Reynolds said coldly. “I am an Irish Catholic who is now an American citizen. In our country there is complete separation of Church and State. There is no official state religion…”

“But you will side with the Catholics against the Protestants, that’s what you will do…”

“Mr. Lytle.” Lee’s words cracked like a whip, silencing the man. “If you came here for a religious argument you may leave now. If you came as an elected official of this city, then address yourself to your reasons for your presence.”

Lytle was breathing hard, unable to speak. It was Councilor Mullan who broke the silence.

“General, the Protestants in the north are a much maligned people who are now united in peace with one another. We are a hard-working people who have built Belfast, in very few years, into a successful and growing city. We weave linen and build ships. But if we unite with the backward south – there will be changes I am sure. The past has been a turbulent one, but that I feel is over. Now what will happen to us?”

“You, and every other resident of this island, will be treated equally. I sincerely hope that you all follow the example of the people of Canada, where national elections have been held and a government has been democratically elected. The same we hope will be true of Mexico in the near future, now that the invading army has been expelled.”

“If you let them rule us there will be murder in the streets—”

“Mr. Lytle,” Reynolds said quietly, “there is no more ‘them.’ There is only democracy now, where all men are equal. One man, one vote. I should think that as an elected official yourself you would respect that fact. Ireland will no longer be ruled from above, ruled by a distant monarch and a self-appointed nobility. You are a free man and you should be grateful for that freedom.”

“Freedom!” he cried out. “We are ruled by invaders!”

“For the moment,” Lee said calmly. “But when you have had your election we will be more than happy to leave. You will have your own police force then to protect you, an army of your own as well to guard against foreign invasion if that is threatened. We have offered you freedom from foreign rule. You would be wise to take it.”

The mayor glared pure hatred. Unspoken was the knowledge that his Protestant majority in Northern Ireland would now be a minority in Catholic Ireland.

“You cannot be sure that the new Ireland will not have a place for you,” Surgeon Reynolds said quietly. “If we fight for equality we may be able to forget the inequalities of the past. Is that not worth working for? Do you see my blue uniform and General Lee’s gray one? Do you know the significance of this? We fought a terrible civil war, brother killing brother – and now we have turned our backs on it and live in peace. Can you not abandon your tribal loyalties and learn to live in peace with your brothers who share this island? Isn’t that a goal worth achieving, an ambition worth attaining?”

His answer was only grim silence. But from their expressions it was obvious that the two men were not pleased with the prospect of a brave new world.

Lee spoke into the silence.

“You gentlemen may go. Please contact me at any time concerning matters of the public good. We are all on the same side, as Surgeon Reynolds has so eloquently said.

“The side of peace.”

Despite General Sherman’s refusal to let him be anywhere near the invasion fleet, John Stuart Mill had still managed to arrive in Ireland as soon as hostilities were at an end. By appealing directly to President Lincoln, who had spoken to the Secretary of the Navy, who had confided in Admiral Farragut, who in turn had gone to Commodore Goldsborough for aid. Goldsborough made the eminently practical suggestion that Mill should see the war from the deck of his ship, the USS Avenger. Since the British had no ironclads that could better – or even equal – her in strength, his safety would not be put into question. Mill greatly enjoyed this wartime experience, particularly when the great ship had fired at an unseen target in Dublin, using the most modern communication, and had in this manner brought about the surrender of the British troops in Dublin Castle.

Only when martial law had been partially lifted was he permitted ashore. Even then a troop of cavalry escorted his carriage from the dock to Fitzwilliam Square, while General Sherman’s aide, Colonel Roberts, accompanied him.

“It is a splendid city,” Mill said looking at the leafy square and the handsome Georgian houses that surrounded it. The colonel pointed.

“There it is, number ten. It is all yours. Don’t know who the owner is yet, but we do know that he left with one bag on the first mailboat from Kingstown after hostilities ended. So it is yours for as long as you need it.”

The two soldiers on guard outside saluted as they went in. “Wonderful, wonderful,” Mill said as they walked through the elegant rooms and admired the handsome garden to the rear. “A suitable setting for the foundation of a new state. Here will meet the men whose task that will be. Thank heavens that they will have such an excellent model to hand, less than a hundred years old.”

“I think, at this point, that you have lost me, sir.”

“Nonsense, my dear fellow, you know all about this Union that you fight to defend. You should be very proud of it. You have your own Congress – and your own Constitution. It was indeed the rule of law, and constitutional responsibility, as pointed out by Lord Coke, that your founding fathers used as a model. It is my great hope that Ireland shall build upon that model in return. First a constitutional congress – and then a constitution. Remember, that all during the Revolutionary period, Americans relied upon their possession of the rights of Englishmen, and the claim that infringement upon those rights was unconstitutional and void. That claim could not, however, rest upon a secure legal foundation until the rights of Americans were protected in written organic instruments. Such protection came with the adoption of written constitutions and bills of rights in the states, as soon as independence had severed their ties with the mother country. The American army has indeed succeeded in severing the Irish ties with Great Britain. Now I am sure that you are wondering how the rights guaranteed by these new constitutions can be enforced?”

Colonel Roberts was thinking nothing of the kind. In fact he wished that he were back in the heat of battle rather than facing up to the seemingly incomprehensible enthusiasms of John Stuart Mill. “Guaranteed rights…” he finally muttered. “Enforced?”

“As, of course, they must be protected. The American genius was the adaptation of a system of checks and balances. The answer to this question is, of course, ultimately, judicial review. That is the function of the Supreme Court. Ireland is very much in need of this rule of law. For the British have never looked upon Ireland as an integral part of the United Kingdom, like Scotland, but as a remote and certainly different part. A backward land set in unprofitable and obscurantist ways of life and thought. All that will change. As a new democracy, separate at last, this country can only look forward to a brilliant future.”

17 MARCH 1864

Perhaps it was the power of prayer rising from every church across the land that brought this particular sunrise, shining golden shafts across the sea. For over two weeks it had rained ceaselessly, remorselessly, cruelly, until it was a wonder that all of Ireland was not washed into the surrounding ocean. Surely everyone was praying for an end of the rain on this most important of all days.

Nevertheless, from dawn to dusk, on the Wednesday it had rained as hard as on any other of the days. But not a cloud was in sight on Thursday morning, St. Patrick’s Day morning, the birth-of-a-country morning.

Mist rose from the grass in Phoenix Park, Dublin, to be burned away by the sun. The tock-tock of hammers on wood sounded through the still air as the final work was done on the viewing stands. Soldiers, in their new dark green uniforms, marched and stamped and saluted as they changed the guard and, my, but there was a new rhythm to their march.

“ ’Tis a grand day,” the captain of the old guard said.

“Aye – and a grand day for old Ireland,” said the captain of the new.

The city was waking, streamers of smoke lazing up from the myriad chimneypots. The clop of horses’ hooves sounded on cobbles as the bakers’ carts made their rounds. Above Sackville Street, across and down the street from the General Post Office, a man was standing at the open window of the Gresham Hotel, breathing in the fresh morning air. The lines of tension on his forehead, and around his eyes, eased a bit as he rubbed long fingers through his thick, and graying, beard.

“Come away from that window – you’ll get your death,” Mary called out from the depths of the feather bed.

“Yes, mother,” Abraham Lincoln said as he closed the window. “But it is a glorious day – how fitting for such a glorious occasion.”

“Noon, you said, the ceremony. We must leave time…”

He sat on the bed and patted her hand. “We have all the time in the world. The carriage will be here at eleven. This will be a day to remember, indeed it will.”

He was glad now that he had insisted she come for this most important of ceremonies. His advisers had wanted him to use the time for electioneering for the presidential election in the fall. But the strain of the war had left him drained. And he wanted to devote some time to Mary, who was suffering more and more from melancholia. It had been a wise decision. Much of her listlessness had gone, the wandering attention, the sudden bouts of crying. The ocean voyage had helped; she had been much taken by their luxurious staterooms aboard the new steam liner the United States. And Dublin had been one party after another as ministers and officials from dozens of countries vied each to outdo the other.

Abraham Lincoln wandered through the suite, found the sitting room where he rugged on the bell pull. The knock on the door seemed to come brief instants later; he ordered coffee. Sat sipping it after it came.

The Irish had outdone themselves in their enthusiasm for their new-found democracy. A quickly assembled committee of politicians and lawyers, under the gentle guidance of John Stuart Mill, had hammered out a constitution, based, like the Mexican constitution of 1823, upon the American model. The judges of the new Supreme Court had been chosen, and preparation for a national election was soon in hand.

Even while this was going on the closed-up constabulary stations were being opened and dusted out, while the first officers of the National Police were installed there. What if many of them were veterans of the American army? They were strong and willing – and were Irish. Policemen who were no longer the servants of foreign masters to be feared rather than trusted. The fact that their senior officers were all volunteers from the American army was, of course, known, but since they were never seen in public little notice was made of it. These were temporary commands, the public were assured, until the police themselves had more experience.

In Belfast and the north an uneasy truce prevailed. When the last British soldiers had been seized and cleared from the land, martial law had been eased. But the American soldiers remained in the barracks and were quick to respond to any breaches of the peace. Political meetings were encouraged; political marches strictly banned. Surgeon Reynolds was relieved of his medical duties and sat on the Ulster Police Committee screening candidates for the new National Police. Discrimination by religion was completely forbidden: no one could be asked his religion. But his address, that was something else again, since everyone in the north knew their tribal lands to the inch. Under Reynolds’s watchful eye, and the quick clamping down on any dissension, the police force was slowly organized. Not by chance, half Protestant, half Catholic.

The pay was good, the uniforms new, promotion fast for the talented.

Dismissal instant at the slightest hint of religious discrimination. The police ranks thinned, then grew again, until they finally stabilized. Like it or not, Ireland, both north and south, was becoming a country of law and equality; discrimination was no longer the rule.

The elections ran far more smoothly than anyone had expected. Of course some of the districts had ballot boxes with more votes than voters, but after all this was Ireland and this sort of thing was expected. Events got a bit riotous on election night and a few heads had to be knocked. But no records were kept, there would be no recriminations, and the cells were turned out next morning.

In five short months the sweet breath of liberty had swept across the land. The courts were opened and Irish judges presided. The Encumbered Estates Courts were abandoned. The new courts ruled fairly on old disputes, settled ancient land claims, presided over the partitioning of giant English estates. The Duke of Leinster had to bid farewell to his 73,000 acres in Kildare and Meath, the Marquis of Downshire lost 115,000 acres as well. Each court dispensed justice beneath the eyes of an officer of the American Provost Marshall General’s Office. Americans had fought – and died – to win this war. They were not going to lose the peace. They wanted old feuds forgotten, old differences finally put by. And so far it seemed to be working.

In a week the newly elected Congress would be seated in the Senate Building in Dublin.

And today the first democratically elected President of the Irish Republic, Jeremiah O’Donovan Rossa would be sworn into office. That the new Chief Justice of the Supreme Court would administer the oath, not Archbishop Cullen, was a law that was firmly implanted in the new Constitution, and strongly backed by the liberating army. There was an iron fist inside the velvet glove. The bishops, who had worked hard to remain in power, were put out by what they claimed was the bypassing of their authority.

The Americans were adamant. Church and State were separate. Religion had no place in politics. The new constitution was very clear on this matter and could not be challenged. If John Stuart Mill was advising from behind the scenes only his spirit was observed, never the man himself.

Ambassadors from around the world had assembled for this great occasion. Only the ambassador from Great Britain was not there; though that country had been asked. There had been no response to the request.

While across the Irish Sea a fierce argument was raging in Britain. Most strongly heard was the war party. A stab in the back, an assault on a peaceful country, soldiers killed, revenge for besmirched honor called for. Far less vociferous was the voice of reason; after all the Irish problem that had always caused so much dissension down through the years had been settled once and for all. Very few listened to reason. Parliament passed bills raising more troops, while regiments were on their way home from Mexico and the Far East. Ironclads made swift raids along the Irish coast, burning any buildings that flew the new green flag with its golden harp. More American warships appeared in Irish ports to patrol the beleaguered coast.

But all of this was forgotten on this most historical of all St. Patrick’s Days. At first light the crowds began streaming into Phoenix Park. It was full to bursting by eleven in the morning and the carriages of the honored guests could only enter after the soldiers had made a lane for them. The viewing stands filled quickly. President Lincoln, and the first lady, were seated on the platform close to the president elect.

“I must congratulate you on a landslide victory,” Lincoln said. “This is not your first public office, I understand.”

“Indeed it is not. I was elected to the British parliament by the good people of Tipperary,” Jeremiah O’Donovan Rossa said. “Though the British would not allow me to take my seat since they had arrested me earlier for being a Fenian. There is too much bigotry in Ireland, on all sides. This is why I insisted on having Isaac Butt as my Vice-President. He is a Protestant lawyer who defended me at my trial. To me he symbolizes the drawing together of all the peoples of this troubled island. Now I must thank you, Mr. President. Thank you, and your stout soldiers and officers, for what you have done for this country. Words cannot express our feelings of gratitude…”

“Why I thought you were doing right fine there.”

“Then let me take your hand and say that this is the most important moment of my life. Ireland free, my imminent inauguration, in my hand that of the great man who made it all possible. Bless you, President Lincoln, the thanks and blessing of all the Irish people are yours.”

It was indeed a memorable day. The speeches were long and windy, but no one cared. The inauguration ceremony brief, the acceptance speech well received. All the excitement had been a bit much for Mary, and the President called for their carriage. But not before Lincoln had sent a message to General Sherman to join him in the hotel. The President waited for him in the sitting room while Mary took her rest. There were some reports and letters waiting for him and he went through them. Smiled at the letter from young Ambrosio O’Higgins who was apparently going into Mexican politics, for which he was well suited. It appeared that he had visited the British road in Mexico, which was now abandoned and deserted. The locals had no use for it and the jungle was quickly taking over.

Sherman found Lincoln at the window, looking down on the celebrating crowds in Sackville Street.

“Come in, Cumph,” Lincoln said, hurrying across the room to shake his hand. “This is the first real chance I have had to congratulate you on your marvelous victory by force of arms. And not only you – but Lee in the north, Jackson in the south.”

“Thank you, sir, it is greatly appreciated. We have good troops, the highest morale – and the deadliest weapons that soldier ever fired. The Gatling guns carried the day. We have heard from captured prisoners that the mere sound of them struck terror into their troops.”

“It was a war well won.”

“And a peace well won as well.” Sherman pointed at the crowded street below.

“It was indeed. If only…”

They looked down the street to the River Liffey and in their minds’ eyes further still across the Irish Sea and to the land beyond.

“I wonder if they will accept the reality of their defeat?” Lincoln said quietly, speaking to himself.

“Their soldiers fought bravely and well. It is not them that we must fear. But the politicians, it appears that they will not let this matter rest.”

“We must have peace. Not peace at any price – but a lasting and just peace. The Council of Berlin starts next week, and our ambassadors are already there. They have had sympathetic talks with the French and Germans. The British delegates will arrive soon. With Lord Palmerston at their head. There must be peace.” Lincoln said it more in hope, than with any positive feeling.

“There must be peace now,” Sherman agreed. “But we must be prepared for war. Only the strength of our navy and army will keep the enemy at bay.”

“Speak politely – but make sure that the rifle hanging over the mantelpiece is loaded. That’s what an old rail-splitter might say.”

“Truer words were never spoken, Mr. President. Never truer.”