Read Online War Children by Gerard Whelan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Gerard Whelan
Ads: Link
there. Even the cattle-driving that still plagued some other parts of the Midlands was uncommon. Nothing much happened by way of great excitement. On fairdays there’d be fights as the pubs closed, and now and again someone would thieve something or be caught poaching, or there’d be some dispute over land or cattle, or various sorts of petty theft; but these things happened everywhere. They were so ordinary that it would have been far stranger if they hadn’t happened at all.
Much of such crime as there was in the town was – quite rightly – put down to the Irishtowners. They fought among themselves, the Irishtowners, and of course they thieved, though they were often caught. And they poached, though they were less often caught there. With both the theft and poaching, it was pretty much a case of steal or go hungry: none of them had much money, and hunger was an everyday thing in most of their houses. Many of the men had joined the British army for the wages, and more than a few of them had died in the war. The sons of the local gentry too had enlisted in the army during the war – those that hadn’t army careers already – but I’d noticed that very few from the more respectable classes of the town had joined up. Loudly law-abiding and respectable though they all were, these had supported the anti-conscription movement when the British had threatened to extend army conscription to Ireland. In some places, earlier that year, anti-conscriptionprotesters had clashed with the police, but naturally this hadn’t happened in our town. There the anti-conscription campaign had been very civilised – very respectable. There’d been big public meetings where stirring speeches were made about how Irishmen could not be forced to go and fight for a foreign power. Often these speeches were made by some of the prominent merchants who were thriving on the high wartime prices but who didn’t want their own sons and heirs going off to fight. Shocking treasons were preached at these meetings sometimes , in the heat of the moment. I remember Tom D’Arcy, the publican and town councillor, saying how Irishmen would fight conscription with their bare hands if they had to; how they’d fight for the right not to fight, and die for the right not to die. I’d been at that meeting with some of the Irishtown lads, and we tried to puzzle out Tom D’Arcy’s meaning.
‘Sure it’s only ould tosh,’ Mickey Farrell said. ‘It’s his own sons he’s worried about. He begrudges the money he’d have to pay someone to help in the shop if they died.’
Mickey was only eleven, but a cynical attitude came naturally to Irishtowners. If they weren’t born with it, the world soon taught it to them. But what he said started me thinking.
* * *
The other incident that started me thinking about the way our whole town was run, was the homecoming of Mickey Farrell’s big brother, Tom. That summer, unnoticed by anybut his Irishtown neighbours and his family, Tom Farrell came home from jail in England. He’d been working in Dublin for years, and he’d been out fighting with the rebels there in the Rising. He’d survived the fighting, and after the surrender he’d been sent to prison. The whole of Irish-town was keen to see him when he came back, and I was as keen as any of them. There were plenty of people in Irish-town who’d been arrested for one little thing or another, but I’d never seen anyone who’d been in jail for armed rebellion and treason before. My own small rebellions seemed puny when put against his.
Tom Farrell was a small, wiry, handsome man, and I suppose he’d have been about twenty-one the first time I saw him. I was disappointed in him at first, to tell you the truth. I’d expected someone more dangerous-looking, more bitter – someone altogether more exciting. But Tom just seemed a friendly young man – a gas character, full of jokes and songs and funny stories about his time in jail. I quickly got over my
Much of such crime as there was in the town was – quite rightly – put down to the Irishtowners. They fought among themselves, the Irishtowners, and of course they thieved, though they were often caught. And they poached, though they were less often caught there. With both the theft and poaching, it was pretty much a case of steal or go hungry: none of them had much money, and hunger was an everyday thing in most of their houses. Many of the men had joined the British army for the wages, and more than a few of them had died in the war. The sons of the local gentry too had enlisted in the army during the war – those that hadn’t army careers already – but I’d noticed that very few from the more respectable classes of the town had joined up. Loudly law-abiding and respectable though they all were, these had supported the anti-conscription movement when the British had threatened to extend army conscription to Ireland. In some places, earlier that year, anti-conscriptionprotesters had clashed with the police, but naturally this hadn’t happened in our town. There the anti-conscription campaign had been very civilised – very respectable. There’d been big public meetings where stirring speeches were made about how Irishmen could not be forced to go and fight for a foreign power. Often these speeches were made by some of the prominent merchants who were thriving on the high wartime prices but who didn’t want their own sons and heirs going off to fight. Shocking treasons were preached at these meetings sometimes , in the heat of the moment. I remember Tom D’Arcy, the publican and town councillor, saying how Irishmen would fight conscription with their bare hands if they had to; how they’d fight for the right not to fight, and die for the right not to die. I’d been at that meeting with some of the Irishtown lads, and we tried to puzzle out Tom D’Arcy’s meaning.
‘Sure it’s only ould tosh,’ Mickey Farrell said. ‘It’s his own sons he’s worried about. He begrudges the money he’d have to pay someone to help in the shop if they died.’
Mickey was only eleven, but a cynical attitude came naturally to Irishtowners. If they weren’t born with it, the world soon taught it to them. But what he said started me thinking.
* * *
The other incident that started me thinking about the way our whole town was run, was the homecoming of Mickey Farrell’s big brother, Tom. That summer, unnoticed by anybut his Irishtown neighbours and his family, Tom Farrell came home from jail in England. He’d been working in Dublin for years, and he’d been out fighting with the rebels there in the Rising. He’d survived the fighting, and after the surrender he’d been sent to prison. The whole of Irish-town was keen to see him when he came back, and I was as keen as any of them. There were plenty of people in Irish-town who’d been arrested for one little thing or another, but I’d never seen anyone who’d been in jail for armed rebellion and treason before. My own small rebellions seemed puny when put against his.
Tom Farrell was a small, wiry, handsome man, and I suppose he’d have been about twenty-one the first time I saw him. I was disappointed in him at first, to tell you the truth. I’d expected someone more dangerous-looking, more bitter – someone altogether more exciting. But Tom just seemed a friendly young man – a gas character, full of jokes and songs and funny stories about his time in jail. I quickly got over my
Similar Books
