The Nationalists

Father John Troy had enjoyed the Easter ceremonies.

He always had a special affinity for those special times of the year. Christmas was followed weeks later by a period of self-sacrifice - Lent - culminating in the Easter celebrations of the Lord's passion and resurrection.

The weather this Easter Monday had been as glorious as the Resurrection celebrations the day before, and he had celebrated both days with a Latin mass accompanied by the Palestrina Choir whose music never failed to inspire him. An all boy choir, the Palestrina choir, had been in operation now a good few years and was a spectacular success with the local parishioners. He had donned his black cloak on Good Friday to say the Stations of the Cross, and on Thursday he had been busy with confessions.

What soured his mood on Monday was the startling burst of gunfire near the pro-cathedral.

What was going on?

A parishioner coming from the direction of Sackville Street filled him in. Suddenly everything clicked together in Troy's mind.

He had wondered why confessions were up on previous years, and why men whom he hadn't seen in ages, were suddenly confessing the burden of their sins to their God.

They had been expecting trouble. They were geared up for death. They were wiping the slate clean.

It suddenly all made sense to Troy.

It was a time of change.

Father John Troy moved among the slumped bodies of men who'd given everything for a free Ireland. He had battled with his conscience before strolling the short distance from the Pro-cathedral to the shell shattered remnants of the GPO to give the fallen of the Rising a final absolution. He made no distinction between Irish or English dead. Though his church didn't espouse violence, having decided under Pope Pius to adopt a conservative attitude to such matters as Nationalistic politics.

In Europe a bitter trench war was engulfing nations. Slaughter on a large scale had taken place in Gallipoli only a year before. John Troy knew he lived in troublesome times. He felt it was a challenge to his priestly ministry. He liked working on the edge.

He'd come to the priesthood late in life. What some might call a late vocation, but he'd no regrets about the type of life he'd chosen to live. He'd entered the seminary at the age of thirty-six, three years after he'd made a life changing pilgrimage to the Holy Land. The sense of peace on his return had been remarkable. The sword of the Holy Spirit had pierced his very soul like a long, razor-thin silent shaft of light.

He never knew why he'd never got married. In his earlier years he had yearned for the love of a good woman, and he had gone to the usual dances and social outings, but it just hadn't happened. He'd had the usual crushes on young women, but somehow that perfect happiness had always eluded him. In days gone by it had made him melancholy. Sometimes helpless and sometimes sad. But life went on, and the dark, melancholy days had been swept away like a sting-ray on an ocean current. The tide of that current had lifted him onto a new plateau, and he was no longer drowning like a piece of flotsam, but was instead elevated in a new direction.

There was a smell of death in the GPO, as he moved around congealed blood pools. John Troy was a man used to death. Both his parents were dead, and his only other close family was a married sister who had immigrated to the States. She had three children, whom he'd only met once, having gone on a retreat to the United States. Despite this separation they remained special in his heart.

Troy felt pity as he moved among the dead. The newspapers might be calling this lunacy "Criminal Madness", but these men were mostly young and just days before had been full of ideals for their version of a free Ireland. Troy knew that this particular battle had been going on for centuries. Probably since The Battle of the Boyne in 1690, and he knew also that particularly in 1798, priests - men of his own calling, of his own cloth - had led the rebels in rebellion against Crown forces. It was enough to give any Irish priest with Nationalistic ideals pause for thought.

With his duties done, he emerged back into the sunlight of Sackville Street, and spotted one of his own parishioners approach him. He suppressed a groan when he noticed it was Minnie. Her voice was sharp, accusatory, as she greeted him.

"Father," she acknowledged. "I'm surprised to see you here?"

"Why is that, Minnie?" Troy's coal-black eyes flashed with sudden irritation.

"Don't tell me you're been giving absolution to those monsters."

This was one of the things, which annoyed Troy about Christianity. How some people saw everything in black and white - with no in-between - just a muddy-grey misunderstanding fog of self-importance. A belief that their way was the only way. A misguided arrow of conceit. How they seemed to leave their Christianity at the door of the church as they emerged from Sunday mass. That lack of feeling, of basic human compassion, amongst the so-called pious, offended him deeply, but his voice was still polite, although slightly sharp when he said to Minnie: "And why shouldn't they receive final absolution, Minnie? Aren't they all God's children?"

"They're bowsies," she said, in a shocked, disapproving tone. "Absolute bowsies."

Troy was silent, thinking. Minnie was one of those women who looked like she carried the weight of Dublin on her broad shoulders. Unkind folk in Dublin would have called her an old bat. A battleaxe, perhaps! She was still in her forties, but her face had probably seen better days, and she had the bearing of a much older woman. She was a product of the Dublin slums, having being raised here, and in turn having raised her own family. Troy understood her troubles. With a husband and eldest son off fighting for the British in France somewhere, probably the Somme, she was worried that the money from the Front might dry up for the Irishmen who'd volunteered, and whose cause had been damaged by what she referred to as the 'bowsies'.

Troy could understand those fears. His own background could not have been more different. Growing up in the south Dublin suburb of Booterstown, he had enjoyed a somewhat more sheltered upbringing. His childhood had been cultured - a world of music, literature and poetry. His family were well respected in the community, and his father held an important government post. He had the opportunity to travel from early in his life, mostly to European cities; Rome, Paris, Venice, Berlin, Florence and Madrid. By the time he was a young man not only had he experienced the culture these cities offered, but also he had seen many of the famous art exhibitions these cities were famous for.

Although his working life brought him into contact with the poor of Dublin, whom he could empathise with but with whom he no other real alliance, Troy knew he was at a disadvantage in dealing with these people. But wasn't that the nature of his calling? He moved in different circles - both socially and culturally. He attended theatre regularly, often going to plays at the Abbey where he could culturally converse with the likes of W.B. Yeats and Synge. These movements brought him into direct contact with men and women who could be termed revolutionary, and who used every means at their disposal to push the Irish cause.

Playwrights wrote Irish stories that appealed to the new sense of nationalism that swept the country at regular intervals; sporting heroes played Gaelic football and hurling and intermingled with the same set; and yet others pushed for Irish language teaching to help protect the sense of nationality. Teachers and professors mostly, but the Irish push wasn't confined to academia circles.

The cultural revolution was everywhere.

In literature there was the Tain and stories about mighty Irish warriors like Cuchulainn and Oisin. In theatre houses and on stages up and down the country, Irish plays were shown. Gaelic games were heavily promoted in the sport arenas. Even in mass on Sunday mornings, prayers were uttered in Irish. There were advocates for the use of the Irish language up and down the country. Poems and stories were written in the native tongue. Military commands in the Irish Volunteers were issued in Irish. It was far from the dead language that many folk tried to maintain.

It was 'beo', alive in every sense of the word.

There was a section of society across all social spheres that tried to downplay and undermine this sense of Irish identity, but nothing could stop the forward beat of a nation. Although small in geographical terms, the country was still capable of throwing a mighty punch. A knockout blow!

The Irish identity was ingrained in the national consciousness. It was as real as an ancient stone. Like a stone it was a solid, rocklike feeling as unshakable as faith.

When he replied to Minnie, his reply was cautious. He knew the woman wasn't above writing into the archbishop. "Even bowsies deserve respect, Minnie."

"Ha," she snorted, stamping her foot angrily on the ground. "They should shoot the lot of them."

Troy started.

It was something he hadn't given a lot of thought to. He knew, of course, everyone in Dublin knew, the British had taken a lot of prisoners, but he hadn't given a lot of thought to what might happen to them. He realized he'd been amiss. He should have checked into that. He certainly hoped Minnie's analysis of the situation was wrong, and that no harm would come to the men and women taken captive. He didn't want to see any of them shot, but he realized in his heart that the British might want to make an example of these men. Instead of arguing further with Minnie, he glanced at his timepiece, and told her curtly he had to go.

His steps were energetic as he left the GPO and hurried towards a tram that would take him to the Castle. Suddenly he felt an air of hurry and of urgency, almost panic. He wasn't a big man in size, but in stature his parishioners all looked up to him.

He ignored the nods of deference directed in his attention when Dublin folk noticed his collar. He sat alone, staring gloomily out of the window. His reflection stared back at him - the furrowed forehead, wide face, thoughtful eyes. His dark hair had greyed, as had his beard. His mouth was tight and grim, his eyebrows bushy above the eyes, his nose slightly askew - broken in a 'rugger' match when he was younger. He wondered how he could have missed the signs? Confessions had been unusually busy all weekend. Easter confessions always brought out the sinners, but this year had been particularly busy. A lot of tough, fighting men waiting in the pews, kneeling and genuflecting in front of the Virgin Mary, the figure of Christ, the statues of Saint Martin and Jude. Men who wanted to wipe the slate clean - men in the know, who had been forewarned that a Rising was afoot.

The destruction to the city was widespread. He saw the damage the British gunship 'The Helga' had inflicted on Liberty Hall. Luckily nobody had been killed there. Buildings elsewhere were heavily damaged; with smoke entrails and fire damage still visible hours after the last surrender.

He had heard there had been heavy fighting in parts of the city besides the GPO. There was a lot of talk about Jacobs and Stephen's Green and the canal areas.

Minutes later he disembarked at the gates of the castle. There seemed to be a lot of activity. Troy glanced at a stretcher bearing party that passed him as they made for a waiting ambulance. He glanced at the supine figure of the man being borne and started in surprise.

Wasn't that the renowned Dublin journalist - Tony McAnthony who worked for Conor Sweeney at the Irish Times? How had he become embroiled in this mess? Troy knew Sweeney and had shared a cognac with him only two nights ago. The editor had been worried about his ace reporter, unaware of his whereabouts.

He quickened his pace, but was stopped by an armed sentry at the gate. The soldier was brisk, agitated.

"What do you want here, Father?"

Troy was equally brusque. "I want to see the commanding officer."

"Sergeant," the soldier bellowed, deciding this warranted higher attention.

The sergeant was stern in manner. "This is no place for you, Father."

"Who's in command here, Sergeant? I need to speak with him about those men you're holding."

"There's nothing you can do for them, Father. Word is they're bringing in some English officer to look after them."

"Who?"

The Sergeant shrugged nonchalantly. "Don't know," he admitted. He stayed silent a moment, thinking. "Follow me," he decided. "You can speak with our officer commanding."

Troy was led to a general in charge.

"General Blackader," the man said, introducing himself. "How can we assist you?"

"General," Troy acknowledged. He could see the Castle men moving among the prisoners, picking out the likely ringleaders. He nodded his head at the men. "What's going to happen to them?"

The General shrugged. "They're criminals. Murderers. Insurgents. They'll be tried and dealt with."

"Dealt with?"

The General looked uncomfortable. "Yes," he confirmed.

"Executed?"

"Didn't say that, my man. But that decision is out of my hands. London will decide."

"Will they get a fair trial?"

"They'll be tried by a military tribunal," he admonished shrugging.

The General was dismissive and Troy knew the situation had escalated to a point where neither man had the power to change matters. He thanked the man for his time and turned to go. The General had a last word for him.

"Pray for them, Father. It's the best you can do."

Troy nodded sadly. "Prayer is sometimes the last resort of the desperate," he said, softly. "But I will take your advice."

As he turned to go and was being escorted across the stone courtyard, Troy caught a wink thrown at him by a man held captive. He smiled in remembrance. Michael Collins. He'd met that young Cork lad at a recent function in the city - perhaps the Abbey. Lady Lavery had introduced them.

He decided to walk home. Walking sometimes allowed him to think well, and he wanted to see the effects the Rising had had on his native city. He took a roundabout route, heading towards the Grafton Street area of the city, and around by Boland's Mills where de Valera had commanded. The damage was evident everywhere. Townsfolk huddled in tight knit groups, talking quietly among themselves.

There was a subdued mood, palpable even amongst visitors. It hung to the very air. It drowned out the holiday atmosphere, which had been very much in evidence only a week before. It drowned out the familiar Dublin undertones and intonations. It threatened to submerge the feelings of the populace as surely as if the black waters of the Liffey had risen and exploded upon the city in a giant tidal wave of emotion, and an outpouring of grief for their stricken city, and not a little bit of nationalistic triumph and pride. Dublin had risen; Ireland had awoken.

Troy was very subdued as he reached home. He decided to pen a letter to his archbishop to see what could be done for the imprisoned rebels.

He sat heavily on a Victorian armchair as he took up his writing pad and pen. Archbishop Raymond Tuite was a powerful figure in the diocese, but Troy didn't hold out much hope for the man's intervention.

Tuite wouldn't want to antagonise Rome.

Rome!

Long the seat of power to St Peter's successsors. Though an eccliastical headquarters in the Vatican, Rome had always had its finger on the pulse of politics, and its watchful eye on world affairs. A particularly keen eye was kept on Ireland - the country being a strong bastion of Roman Catholic values.

Rome recognised the loyalty value of Catholic Ireland and was well aware of the numbers it provided in building up the church and sending its men and women on the foreign missions.

It had observed the outbreak of a rising with misgivings, but also with a strange understanding. It understood the needs of small nations to throw off the shackles of oppression. Wasn't that what the war in Europe was all about? Tiny Belgium was the classic case of a country, a Catholic one at that, that bigger nations were fighting desperately over.

The Vatican wasn't happy about the blood being shed in Europe, but its ambassadors were powerless in the face of the European armies and their leaders. It could only sit back and watch, offering advice from afar, from its seat in Rome.

When the letters from the Irish bishops arrived in the Eternal City, the Vatican pondered on what moves it should adopt. In many ways they adopted a wait and see attitude, but they also exerted a quiet influence.

The politicos in London felt that pressure.