What difference does it make to the dead, the orphans and the homeless, whether the mad destruction is wrought under the name of totalitarianism or in the holy name of liberty or democracy? - Mahatma Gandhi
November 14, 1920
The Branson Home
"This family has been working too hard," Daniel announced, as he reached for another helping of bacon. "We're going to have some fun! Bern and I have decided that next Sunday the women are going on a picnic in the park, and the men…"
The family was gathered for Sunday dinner at the Bransons'. As Sybil looked around the table, she saw the effects of the last year stamped on every face and had to agree with her brother-in-law. There had been a lot of excitement for this family—some of it good, some very much the opposite.
Kathleen was bubbling like a simmering pot as usual—young love will do that to you, Sybil thought with affection. Deaglan had been good for her. He seemed a nice lad in spite of Tom's concerns about his uncle, and he was obviously besotted with Katie. They'd been walking out for nearly a year now; she wondered if an announcement might be forthcoming soon.
She watched her adorable niece and nephew as they stuffed food into their mouths. When had they grown up? she wondered in amazement. Connor was four and a half, Fiona almost two. She glanced at her own daughter, sleeping peacefully for a change in the small cot across the room. She was going to grow up too, she realised with a pang. It was all going too fast.
Bernadette was pregnant again. She hadn't said, but nobody could glow like that, from the inside out, unless a baby was on the way. From Sybil's lofty vantage point as the mother of the most adorable baby in Christendom, she knew things about motherhood, and she was sure of it.
It might be why Daniel was more ebullient than usual, she thought. Or he might just be basking in the success of his new furniture venture. His and Patrick's. Her eyes went to her youngest brother-in-law, and her face clouded with concern.
Patrick had changed over the last month. He said little to anyone, other than the normal pleasantries, and his effervescent nature seemed to have been pressed out of him as if by a huge weight. He was simply there, but he didn't participate. The only thing he cared about was work, but even when family and friends congratulated him on his success, he wasn't really present in the moment.
It was Edith, of course. Damn her sister, Sybil thought with sudden anger. Why couldn't she have had the courage to face the challenges that loving Patrick presented. Because Edith had loved him—Sybil knew it with every fibre of her being. She had never seen her sister so happy as when she had been here, and she didn't understand her inability to stand up to the pressure.
Was it just the problem of finding something to do? No one understood as well as she did how difficult it was to find your place in an environment so alien to everything you knew. It had taken her forever to find work, and even then it had been partly due to circumstances beyond her control. But when you loved someone, you persevered. You didn't give up and run home with your tail between your legs.
She found Tom's hand under the table and squeezed, enjoying that small thrill of happiness as his clear blue eyes met hers and he squeezed back. When you loved someone, she thought as he favored her with that grin, you didn't quit. You just didn't. You stayed the course.
Sybil's eyes traveled around the table to Michael. He seemed preoccupied these days, too, but not in the same way as Patrick. His thoughts seemed elsewhere, and Sybil thought she knew where—and with whom—those thoughts might be. But there was more. He seemed worried about something. He hadn't been on about Michael Collins much lately, hadn't been quoting the man or touting his greatness. She wondered if something had soured his hero worship a bit.
Michael's membership in the IRA had always frightened her. She knew he was passionate about his country's independence, but he didn't seem to have the ruthlessness that so many of those men had, the willingness to kill at a moment's notice on the orders of zealots like Michael Collins. Oh, Ireland's future needed men like that, she knew. She just didn't think Michael was one of them.
She wondered if Mr. Collins sensed it too. He certainly had to have noticed the growing friendship between Michael and his niece—the man was in intelligence, after all! Maybe he was keeping Michael out of the loop on purpose, for reasons of his own. She hoped so.
Her eyes rested on Claire Branson. Mam had a look of strain about her these days, too. Sybil knew that she missed Maire desperately. She could not imagine what it would be like if Abby was separated from her by space and time like that. Children grew up and sometimes moved away…she spared a guilty thought for her own mother. She loved Mama, dearly, but she and Cora had never had the bond shared by Claire and her daughters. That was another difference in the class system. Working class Irish families like the Bransons were forced by circumstance and need to depend on each other; they shared a closeness that her own family would never understand.
"…so the men are going to Croke Park for the match." Sybil's attention snapped back to Daniel. "Dublin is playing Tipperary for the league title, and we're going to see it. All of us!" he said ominously, as Patrick opened his mouth to say something. "No excuses!" Patrick closed his mouth and his shoulders slumped. "It'll be a celebration—for the shop, and for something else." He looked at his wife, who was staring at her plate with a blush staining her cheeks.
"There is going to be another Ryan at this table. Bern and I are having a baby, and I may never see a moment of freedom again!" Bernadette punched his arm, and he laughed down at her.
November 21, 1920, Morning
Dublin
It was only nine o'clock in the morning, and Johnny Malone was bored. He stood in front of the Gresham Hotel on O'Connell Street and scuffed his feet on the sidewalk, his thoughts grim. A newsboy never gets to take part in the news, he lamented to himself. All the exciting things that were happening in his city these days, and he saw them only as headlines in the papers he sold. He wanted to do something, make a difference. He wanted to join the war for his country's independence.
But he was only fourteen—too young to join the Volunteers, too young to fight, too young for anything. He had been born too late. His parents were republicans. The war was a frequent topic of conversation at the Malone dinner table. They did what they could for the cause—gave money, visited prisoners. But his mother drew the line at her only son joining the IRA. He could join when he turned eighteen, she said, if they still needed him. It would be his decision to make then. But he knew that in four years, the war would most likely be long over. He would have missed his chance.
Johnny had to content himself with reading his own newspapers, avidly following the careers of his heroes in the IRA. He idolized Michael Collins and Eamon de Valera, read the exploits of Dan Breen and James Cahill and Paddy Moran in his newspapers and dreamed of joining them. But he never would, unless he ran away and lied about his age, and he knew he couldn't do that to his Mam. It would kill her.
He glanced up at the noise of footsteps in the street, and saw a group of some eight or nine men coming toward him, hands in their pockets, caps shielding their faces. It was odd for so many men to be hanging about together these days, a sure fire way to attract the attention of the RIC. It was also strange that none of them were talking to each other or making eye contact. Johnny's newsboy senses pricked up as he watched them enter the hotel in silence.
And suddenly his excitement got the best of him. He knew one of those men! Had seen his picture in the paper countless times!
"Cahill!" he called out. "James Cahill!" The man looked up, startled, and Johnny's words froze in his mouth. He backed away, chilled by what he saw in the man's eyes. They were flat, dark, and as those eyes made contact with his Johnny Malone saw a fixed purpose—and he saw something else in their depths. He saw death. Johnny dropped his newspapers and ran for his home, grateful for the first time to be fourteen and too young to be a part of this war.
A few minutes later shots rang out inside the Gresham Hotel, and two suspected British intelligence officers were dead. The IRA assassins slipped away in the Sunday morning calm, as silently as they had come.
All over central Dublin that morning, the pattern was repeated. By the time the shooting stopped, fourteen suspected British agents had been killed, many of them in their beds, in assassinations ordered by Michael Collins. Johnny Malone had finally taken part in the war. Unknown to him as he sat shaking in his bedroom, this was the day that would go down in history as Bloody Sunday, and it was just beginning.
November 21, 1920, Afternoon
Croke Park, Dublin
"Da, who's the best football man?"
"Can I sit with Unca Tom?"
"Unca Pat, these seats are old. You should make them some new ones!"
'Da, can I—"
"Connor, give it a break, lad!" laughed his father, ruffling his small son's hair. Connor was jumping up and down as if on an invisible trampoline, taking in the crowd, the smells, and the huge grassy field. This was the first outing he was old enough to remember, and in truth there had not been many opportunities for pleasure on this scale in his young life. His excitement was understandable, but exhausting.
All the Branson men had turned out for the Gaelic football match between Dublin and Tipperary. The women were on their outing to the park, except for Claire and Bernadette. Bern had been experiencing bouts of morning sickness, and Claire decided to stay home with her. "Someone has to feed you lot when you get home," Claire said, "so go…all of you. Have fun!" Sybil, Kathleen, Fiona, and little Abby set out for the city park to enjoy the crisp fall afternoon, and Bernadette settled herself on the couch with a book and some rare peace and quiet.
Although Tom would never admit it, he was enjoying this rare escape from Miss Abigeál Branson, and from the stress of work. Soon enough he'd be happily back with his two darling girls, but a day out with the other Branson men was something to be savored. He intended to enjoy every minute.
Patrick and Michael followed Daniel, Tom, and Connor into Croke Park, each occupied by his own thoughts. Neither wanted to be there, but for different reasons. Michael was wishing he had gone to the Collins', because he knew that Aislinn's uncle would be away all day on IRA business. He'd said as much the last time they had spoken, putting particular emphasis on the day for some reason, so he knew Aislinn would be home alone. But here he was, hanging out with his family instead of his girl.
Wait! What? His girl? He was surely losing it—what a hare-brained idea! But as Michael Branson followed the others into Croke Park, a smile began to spread over his face.
Patrick was thinking of Edith…again. He was going to have to get a grip and move on. He knew he was being immature and stupid, letting this affect him so deeply. When something was over, it was over, and there wasn't anything he could do about it. It had been grand, but she was gone. And he had work, and the new shop was doing amazingly well…he should be enjoying his success instead of moping like a sad puppy. She wasn't the only woman in the world—God had made plenty of them. He followed his family into Croke Park, listening as his mind tried to lie to his heart.
As the match progressed, Connor became bored. "Da, I haf to use the toilet!" he announced. Daniel rolled his eyes.
"Of course you do! It's only the third time! Well, lad, let's go." Hand in hand, they wandered off toward the toilets.
"Good thing he left Fiona home," Tom commented. "He's missed half of the match. Wonder what he'll do when he has three!"
Michael stood up, restless. "I'm going for a pint, anyone else in?"
Aye, sure," his brothers mumbled, their eyes glued to the field.
"I'll get one for Dan then, too."
Michael worked his way through the crowd toward the pub stand near the entrance to the park. Suddenly he heard pounding feet, and looking up saw a group of men racing in, pushing and shoving to get past. Ticket sellers, by their clothing. As a lad ran past him and into the arena, Michael saw the panic in the rolling whites of his eyes. What the hell—?
And then he heard the shots. Looking past the fleeing park workers, Michael saw three armored cars pulled up to the kerb, with at least five lorries parked behind them. Military! As he watched in horror, Black and Tans poured out of the lorries and joined those already running toward the park entrance, firing their weapons indiscrimately as they came on. Right into the crowd of unwittinging spectators, deliberately!
With his IRA training, it took Michael only a second to assess the threat, and then he was racing back to his family, fear lending speed to his feet. A bullet whistled past his head, too close, and a man ten feet ahead of him went down. He reached the section where his family sat and screamed, "It's the Tans!" They're shooting at people! Get down!"
Tom reacted instantly, pulling Patrick down next to him, and Michael joined them on the cement floor of the stadium seating, everyone trying to keep perfectly still. From their position, they saw the soldiers rush past their section into the park, firing at will into the crowd.
Now people were becoming aware of the horror that was unraveling in front of them, and they began to mob toward the gates, looking desperately for a way out of the line of fire. A man fell in the passage and was immediately trampled by those behind him as they stampeded mindlessly past. A young boy tripped and fell in the aisle near where the Bransons crouched, and Michael reached out and dragged him into the seats, hissing at him to be still. The Tans continued firing, and one of the footballers went down on the pitch in a shower of blood.
And then, as quickly as it had begun, the carnage was over. The soldiers melted away, the lorries and armored cars peeled off from the kerb, and an eerie silence fell over Croke Park. The Bransons staggered to their feet to see people on the ground in the stands and along the walkways, a few unmoving, others slowly getting up. A moaning sound began and swelled and was joined by a keening from those holding mates and loved ones who had been shot or trampled. The sound was chilling in its pain and sorrow, reflecting the horror of this day's unspeakable violence.
Tom moved in a daze to the man who had been trampled, helping him to stand. He continued on to a young man with glazed eyes who was sitting on the step and moaning softly, holding his hand to a bleeding wound in his shoulder. Ripping the sleeve from the man's shirt, Tom wrapped it tightly around the wound as he had seen Sybil do once, and told the lad to hold his hand over the cloth and keep pressing. A man who had been seated in the next row hurried over and told them he was a doctor, and Tom thankfully gave the job over to him.
Others had sprung into action now, aiding those who could walk, comforting those who could not. Michael was supporting an older man who had been pushed down and nearly trampled by those fleeing in panic, helping him into a seat. Patrick looked up from helping a dazed man who had been caught in the stampede, and stared down at the pitch, where the Tipperary players clustered around the still body of their teammate. How could this have happened? he thought. What was this city—this country—becoming? And again he thought of Edith. Maybe she had been right to go. This was no place for a lady. No place for anyone. He sighed, and turned back to do what he could to help.
Suddenly Tom stood still and looked around, as a feeling of dread gripped him. He turned to the others, the color draining from his face.
"Where's Daniel?" he rasped. "Where's Connor?"
A/N: November 21, 1920, "Bloody Sunday", marked the worst single day of violence in the Irish War of Independence. The day was marked by appalling acts on both sides and began with the murder of 14 British spies and their associates on the orders of the Michael Collins. The response of the Black and Tans was as swift as it was brutal. Lorry loads of soldiers made their way to Croke Park in the afternoon, where tens of thousands of Irish Nationalists were gathering to watch a Gaelic football match between Dublin and Tipperary. The ground became a war zone as the crowd came under an indiscriminate hail of bullets and, within minutes, 13 civilians and one footballer lay dead or dying, and at least 60 more were injured.
Pronunciation Guide:
Aislinn - ash + ling
Deaglan - deck + lan
