Part 7

Hatless we raced across Stephen's Green--that little handkerchief of a park that never seemed so embroidered with turns and bridges and bandstands and duck ponds before. Through the crowd that had already gathered we edged our way till we came to the double line of bayonets and batons that guarded the entrance to Dawson street. Over the broad, blue shoulder of the policeman directly in front of me, I glimpsed a wicked-looking little whippet tank with two very conscious British officers just head and shoulders out. Still further down were three covered motor lorries that had been used to convey the soldiers.

Sean, for the especial benefit of constable just ahead: "Wars for democracy and small nations! And that's the only way they can keep us in the British empire. Brute force. Nice exhibition for the American journalists in town."

Constable stalked Sean back to edge of crowd. Sean looked at him steadily with slight twinkle in his eye. Miss Barton, Miss Pankhurst, and I climbed up a low stone wall that commanded the guarded street, and clung to the iron paling on top. Sean came and stood beneath.

Miss Pankhurst, regarding crowd in puzzled manner: "Why do you all smile? When the suffragists were arrested we used to become furious."

Sean looking up at her in kindly manner in which old rebel might glance at impatient young rebel: "You forget. We're very used to this."

Miss Pankhurst made an unexpected jump from her place. She wedged her way to the line of soldiers. As she talked to two young Tommies they blushed and fiddled with their bayonets like girls with their first bouquets of flowers. Twice a British major admonished them.

Miss Pankhurst, returning: "Welsh boys. Just babies. I asked them why they came out armed to kill fellow workers. They said they had enlisted for the war. If they had known they were to be sent to Ireland they would have refused to go. I told them it was not too late to act. They could take off their uniforms. But they? They're weak--weak."

As dusk fell, party capes and tulle mists of head dresses began to appear between the drab or tattered suits of the bystanders. Among the coming reception guests was Susan Mitchell, co-editor with George Russell on The Irish Homestead.

Susan Mitchell, of constable: "Can't I go through? No? But there's to be a party, and the tea will get all cold."

In the courage of the crowd, the people began to sing The Soldiers' Song. It took courage. It was shortly after John O'Sheehan had been sentenced for two years for caroling another seditious lyric. A surge of sound brought out the words: "The west's awake!" Dying yokes. And a sudden right-about-face movement of the throng.

Crowd shouting: "Up the Americans!"

With Sinn Fein and American flags flying, the delegates' car rolled up to the outskirts of the crowd. A sharp order. The crowd-fearing bayonets lunged forward. Frank Walsh, looking through his tortoise-rim glasses at the steel fence, got out of his car. He walked up to the pointing bayonets, and asked for the man in charge.

Frank Walsh: "What's the row?"

The casualness of the question must have disarmed Lieutenant-Colonel Johnstone of the Dublin Military Police. He laughed. Then conferred. While the confab was on, the Countess Markewicz slipped from Mr. Walsh's car to our paling. She was, as usual, dressed in a "prepared" style. She had on her green tweed suit with biscuits in the pockets, "so if anything happened."

Countess Markewicz, rubbing her hands: "Excellent propaganda! Excellent propaganda!"

The motor lorries chugged. Soldiers broke line, and climbed in. The people screamed, jumped, waved their hands, and hurrahed for Walsh. Mr. Walsh returned to his car. And in the path made by the heartily boohed motor lorries, the American's machine commenced its victorious passage to the Mansion House. In order to get through the crowd to the reception we sprang to the rear of the motor. Clinging to the dusty mudguard, I remarked to Miss Pankhurst that we would not look very partified. And she, pushed about by the tattered people, said she did not mind. Long ago she had decided she would never wear evening dresses because poor people never have them.

Last act. Turkish-rugged and velvet-portièred reception room of the Mansion House. Assorted people shaking hands with the delegates. Delegates filled with boyish glee at the stagey turn of events.

Frank Walsh: "Look! There's Bob Barton talking to his sister. Out there by the portrait of Queen Victoria--see that man in a green uniform. That's Michael Collins of the Irish Volunteers and minister of finance of the Irish Republic. The very men they're after.

"Is this a play? Or a dream?"

"You could eat shell as easily as make it," was one of the first parliamentary rebuffs received by Irishmen asking the establishment of national munition factories at the beginning of the war, according to Edward J. Riordan. Mr. Riordan is secretary of the National Industrial Development Association. This is a non-political organization of which the Countess of Desart, the Earl of Carrick, and Colonel Sir Nugent Everard are some of the executive members. It was not until 1916 that Ireland secured consideration of her rights to a share in the war expenditure. In that year, an all-Ireland committee called on Lloyd George. He said: "It is fair that Ireland, contributing as she does not only in money but in flesh and blood, should have her fair share of expenditure.... I should be prepared to utilize whatever opportunities we can to utilize the opportunity this gives you to develop Ireland industrially." After persistent effort, however, all that the all-Ireland committee was able to get was five small munition factories. The insignificance of these plants may be realized from the fact that at the time the armistice was declared there were only 2,250 workers in them.

As to trade increase:--when I was in Ireland in 1919, the last export statistics given out by the government were for 1916. In 1914 exports were valued at $386,000,000; in 1916, at $535,000,000. But, according to the Board of Trade, prices had doubled in that time, so that if exports had remained stationary, their value should have doubled to $772,000,000.]

III

IRISH LABOR AND CLASS REVOLUTION

"A CHANGE OF FLAGS IS NOT ENOUGH."

In the sputtering flare of the arc lamp in front of Liberty hall stood squads of boys. Some of them wore brass-buttoned, green woolen waists, and some, ordinary cotton shirts. Some of them had on uniform knickers, and some, long, unpressed trousers. On the opposite side of the street were blocked similar squads of serious-eyed, high-chinned girls. Some of them were in green tweed suits, and others as they had come from work. They were companies of the Citizens' Army recruited by the Irish Labor party, and assembled in honor of the return of the Countess Markewicz from jail.

"Though cowards flinch and traitors sneer, We'll keep the red flag flying here."

Young voices, impatient of the interim of waiting, sang the socialist song. The burden was taken up by the laborers, whose constant movement to keep a good view was attested by the hollow sound of their wooden-soled boots on the stone walks. And the refrain was hummed by the shawled, frayed-skirted creatures who were coming up from Talbot street, Gloucester street, Peterson's lane, and all the family-to-a-room districts in Dublin. On the skeletonish railroad crossing suspended over the Liffey, tin-hatted and bayonet-carrying British soldiers were silhouetted against the moon-whitened sky. Up to them floated the last oath of "The Red Flag":

"With heads uncovered swear we all, To bear it onward till we fall. Come dungeon dark or gallows grim, This song shall be our parting hymn."