The Last of the Fenians

By James Francis Smith

Smith's Irish-American Story wouldn’t be complete without referencing the Irish wars of the early 1900s, including Irish participation in WWI. It wasn’t until 2010 that Ireland’s President Mary McAleese traveled to Turkey to pay tribute to the thousands of her countrymen buried there.
Written in the 3rd Party Limited Point of View, The Last of the Fenians is partitioned into major events by the newspaper headlines of the day. The novel begins in County Donegal where Fiona Glackin deserts her childhood sweetheart, PJ Sleavin father of her unborn child, forsakes her religion, flees to Belfast, and does the unthinkable, marries a Protestant. PJ takes up boxing to finance his search for his lost love. Once in Belfast, he is blackmailed into signing up with the British Expeditionary Force as a bicycle messenger. PJ takes the reader into the headquarters and trenches of every major WWI English battle, including those where Irish and Ulster divisions made their mark.
PJ’s close companion Father Edward (Reed) Ward, id assigned to County Cork’s Clonakility Parish, where he befriends a young Michael Collins. Written in the 3rd Party Limited Point of View, The Last of the Fenians is partitioned into major events by the newspaper headlines of the day.
Despite the strong feelings of many that Irishmen should never have worn a British uniform, the author doesn’t agree. Therefore, he included the battles of WWI in The Last of the Fenians, an oversight by most Irish historians long in need of closure.
“Ireland’s freedom had been won on the streets of Dublin and in the hills of Cork and Tipperary. The right to nationhood was earned in the gullies of Gallipoli and the trenches of Flanders.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Francis Smith
• Release date: Jun 4, 2012
• ISBN: 9781452487595

James Francis Smith

Philadelphia native James Francis Smith a graduate of LaSalle University with an MBA from Pacific Lutheran University, after a successful career in industry and finance, returned to his first love—historical novels. Or as he prefers, history chronicled in a novel style. In documenting the Irish-American story, he dedicated his remaining years to recording the achievements and contributions of Irish-Americans and Irish-born to their adopted land. Smith’s novels chronicle the lives, loves, and wars of people and events that have often been overlooked by history: Druids, Celts, and Romans – Europe circa 400 BCE The Civil War’s Valiant Irish – US 1859-1865 (currently being professionally edited) The Last of the Fenians – Ireland 1910-1923 The Life and Times of Liam O’Donnell – US 1918-1945 Rory O’Donnell and the Kennedys – US 1946-1968 Unholy Conspiracies – US circa 1990-2005 Western Civilization – A collection of short stories from ancient history to the current era

Book preview

THE LAST OF THE FENIANS

Ireland 1912-1923

Covers the four Irish wars of the early 20th Century

By James Francis Smith

Copyright 2011 by James Francis Smith

Smashwords Edition, License Notes.

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be resold or given to other people. f you would like to share this book with another person please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Acknowledgements

I wish to thank my wife, Betty, for putting up with my moods and listening to the many conversations about the book that quickly became old with the telling.   I am most grateful to my children Joseph Connell and Mary Eileen; who read and offered refreshing advice to improve the quality of my tale.   I am indebted to the very talented Rob Miller for editing my work, improving it exponentially. I am furthermore beholden to Jodi Sullivan, Shannon O’Donnell, and the Tacoma Writer’s Roundtable for their candor, assistance, and encouragement, when reviewing the manuscript. A special appreciation to Don Tolman, a WWI buff, who lent me books and tapes to greatly assist my research.

Author’s Comments:

FENIAN -FÉINNE: a member of a secret 19th century Irish and Irish-American organization dedicated to the overthrow of British rule in Ireland.

The cover image was selected in memory of my wife’s maternal grandmother, Jane Sullivan, a lifetime resident of Skibbereen, County Cork, Ireland.

Four separate wars took place in Ireland, during the decade from 1914-1923:

The Great War (WWI)1914-1918

The Anglo-Irish War 1919-1921

Ulster 1921-1922

The Irish Civil War 1922-1923

Ireland, in the period covered by this book, was a most dangerous place, both during the Anglo-Irish War, and later during the Irish Civil War with Irish Catholics killing Iris Catholics. Reprisal executions by the Free State Government—particularly that of O’Connor, Barrett, Mellows, and McKelvey—were barbaric. Following World War I, many Republicans despised their countrymen who fought under the British flag and treated them worse than returning American Vietnam veterans. This author holds to the belief:

Ireland’s freedom had been won on the streets

of Dublin and in the hills of Cork and Tipperary.

The right to nationhood, however, was earned in

The gullies of Gallipoli and the trenches of Flanders

The Last of the Fenians is dedicated to the brave men and women who lit the flame for Ireland’s freedom … and to those buried in Gallipoli and France.

Table of Contents

Characters

1 Prelude to War

2 The Great War (WWI) Battles:

Mons

Gallipoli

Messines Ridge

Neuve_Chapelle

Loos

The Somme

Ypres

Cambrai

Zeebrugge_Ostend

Anglo_Irish War:

Bachelor_Walk Massacre

Easter_Monday Rebellion

Fron_Goch Prison

Soloheadbeg

3 British Intelligence Officers_Assassinated

4 Bloody Sunday Croke_Park

5 Cork_City Sacked

6 Dublin Customs_House Burned

7 Treaty

8 Ulster:

9 Monaghan_Football Team Arrested

10 Belfast_Publican and Family Murdered

11 Sir_Henry_Wilson Assassinated

12 Irish_Civil_War:

13 British tug Upnor captured

Adamson Killed

Battle_of_Dublin

Michael_Collins gunned down

Belfast 2010

Fictional Characters:

PJ Sleavin(PJ)

Edward Ward (Reed)

Fiona Glackin

Roger Wolf

Bruce Wolf

Bryn Morgan

Canon Martyn

Malachy Magill

Chris Keane

Kathy Keane

Historical Characters:

Michael Collins (Micheál Coileáin)

Winston Churchill

Eamon De Valera (Dev)

Cathal Brugha

Tom Barry

Frank Aiken

Basil Clarke

Arthur Griffin

Nancy O’Brien

Prelude to War

1912-1913

He was gay when he held the sword

sad when he held the harp

for the great gaels of ireland

are the men that god made mad

for all their wars are merry

and all their songs are sad

"Ballad of the Pale Horse" – Chesterton

PJ SLEAVIN

Ending his chores, and looking forward to the night’s ceili, even if with a bit of sadness, Padraig Jamie Sleavin gave the cow a final shove to secure it in the byre. The Sleavins were hosting their second American wake. Timothy, the number two son, would be joining his brother Seamus, and cousins, Ed, and John McGinty on the Philadelphia police force. The sound of fiddles, and penny whistles practicing jigs and reels, floated across the vale. The music, along with the scent of the piglets and chickens roasting on the open fires, made PJ as hungry as a lion chasing down a zebra. After doing a few steps in time with the music, PJ blessed himself, said a short prayer for Timothy’s well-being, and that he and older brother Seamus would be sending money back for his passage. Like most his age, America was his dream: he didn’t want to be ending his days slopping the pigs and milking the cow.

By the time he finished washing at the well, Thom Glackin had arrived, as usual, drunk as a lord. While PJ’s da wished the head of the Glackins would drink a wee bit more just for the blessing of passing out, PJ hoped the man would mouth himself a scrap and then be given the boot. That being the situation, it would free the sot’s daughter, the lovely Fiona, from his guarding eyes. PJ, along with all the rest of the lads, couldn’t help but notice that Fiona had blossomed, more than filling out a pass-me-down from one of her older sisters. Even Reed, off studying for the collar, had been unable to not notice the prettiest girl in Ballybofey.

With her da still maintaining his balance, Fiona spent the early hours turning down the many offers to partner with pimple-faced boyos, instead, opting to surround herself with giggling girls jealously approaching their own maturity.

PJ had more sense than to close in on Fiona as long as her old man had her under belt and key, but nevertheless, whenever, she glanced in his direction, it was all he could do not to crumple under the shivers dancing down his spine. Then, quick, plan-in-hand to keep holding her attention, he leapt to center stage and lead the singers in a chorus of Irish Soldier Laddie.

Shortly after inhabiting the stage, PJ’s heaven-sent pleas were answered. Thom Glackin stepped on Sean McCloskey’s foot, making the mountainous farmer wear his drink. Under the threat of being cutoff, the brawl was broken up before any serious injury, and what was often the case, early yet into the do, the Glackin pater, along with Fiona’s ma, made their way home.

The unwanted couple, staggering as if they were carrying five-and-a-half tons of sod, were barely out of sight before the music took on a more festive air. Fiona, with her long shapely legs, set about captivating the hearts of all with her rendition of the Sailor’s Hornpipe. She no sooner occupied the wooden platform than PJ joined her in the dance before any other. Later, with the adults all in thrall to the drink, PJ and Fiona made their way behind the byre, all fumbling clothes and lost eager hands.

If PJ’s mother could have seen the lovesick expression on his face when he’d finally collapsed into bed, she would have wiped it off with the back of her hand.

TITANIC SUNK– 4/15/1912

The pride of Belfast’s Harland & Wolff

on her maiden voyage, struck an iceberg.

PJ

Big Eddie Ward was the first to bring the news. Not long after, Father McCallion arrived at the Sleavin farm, and with predictable decorum, tried to comfort the family with promises of it being God’s Will that Timothy had taken passage on the Titanic, him and the many others who perished, including most of the Irish third-class passengers. Ignoring the priest’s attempt to console them, Maggie Sleavin told of how Timothy, who couldn’t swim, hated the water. Meanwhile, her husband took to the drink, finding a far more consoling companion than one proclaiming that the Most High had desired his son dead.

Timothy’s wake, following his empty-casket laying-to-rest, mimicked that of his American one with everything but the joy. Even Fiona’s step dancing couldn’t bring a smile to PJ’s face. He’d not only lost a brother, but perhaps, with one day going to America, the dream of a lifetime.

Even the occasional time alone with Fiona couldn’t dispel the pervasive gloom that threatened to consume him, causing him to mope from one task to the next, grumbling at his siblings for not doing their share, gulping down his meals, but only after a battle, succumbing to exhaustion. With only the Lowerymore River for company, he hiked the rugged bridle path through Barnesmore Gap that separated the mountains Connall from Owen.

At last, PJ welcomed Reed, his long missed boyhood companion, home from the seminary. The two took out their grief on the weeds growing among the corn stalks.

PJ looked out the half-door of his kitchen not surprised to see Reed perched on the stone wall separating their farms. PJ recalled the day his da christened Eddie, the youngest of the Wards, with the nickname Reed by commenting on the lad’s growth-spurt during that long-ago summer. Tall and thin as a reed in a bog, that boy. The nickname became special to PJ and Fiona with anyone else considering its use risking a bloody nose from the pugnacious PJ.

Reed beckoned to his constant companion, indicating there was information of such import it couldn’t wait until PJ gulped down his meager breakfast of tea and soda bread. As he did most mornings, PJ made for the jug of orange marmalade.

Reed would still be there when he finished.

Instead of immediately spitting out what ailed him, Reed jumped down and headed for the gate to the byre where only the cow would hear. No sooner had they left sufficient distance between them and the Sleavins’ stone cottage, he blurted out, Fiona’s gone. Took off in the middle of the night.

Jerking to a stop as if Reed had just punched him in the gut, PJ stared across the emerald-green vale to the brown, rocky patch the Glackins called home. Why in the name of all that’s holy would she do such crazy thing? Gone where?

Reed pitched a stone against the Sleavins’ only tree. Don’t know.

He pitched another.

She did mention you’d say something about her being crazy. Then she added, ‘Look at your own ma, breaking her back every day to raise her brood; and she has it easy compared to my ma, who has to put up with a drunkard. That’s not the life for me. I love PJ, but not enough to be chained to a farmer.’

Fiona’s parting words jolted PJ to his very core. Why didn’t you wake me?

Made me take an oath to wait ’til morning. Honest! Would’ve told ya, but I’d’ve committed a grave sin. A sly smile appeared as he studied PJ’s sullen expression. You two bumped last night, didn’t ya?

None of your business.

You know you weren’t the first?

She told me, and it’s no bother.

Then last night must’ve been her going-away present. Bet her da caught her with straw in her britches. Took the razor-strop to her, she told me.

She couldn’t’ve got far. Let’s go. We can still catch her. I’ve got to find her, make sure she’s okay.

Reed flung another stone. Don’t be a fool. You’re a farmer, not a city lout. And there’s plenty of lasses who’ll spread their legs … particularly for you. Fiona? Well, she’s long gone. Even emptied the family savings hidden behind a stone in the fireplace. Probably in Derry, by now.

Should’ve woke me. Oath, or no.

I couldn’t. With Ma having me pegged for the collar, I can’t be committing any sins and risk being thrown out, especially with only a year to go.

So after next year, I’ll be callin’ you Fodder?

"Hey, you’d better start showing more respect now, or I won’t be hearing your confession later."

As if I’d confess anything to you?

You’re doing it already. Another stone. So how was it?

If I tell you now, wouldn’t that be a sin?

Priest’s got to know something about what Bill Maloney calls the beast with two backs. How else can I forgive a sin I know little about?

All right, after we duck into the byre. But you gotta promise never to ever tell.

Promise.

Swear.

By all that’s holy. Reed crossed his heart with his index finger.

It’s not much different than when the horses do it. First you….

FIONA GLACKIN

Enduring the degrading feels from the freckled clod sitting astride the cabbages in the rear of the wagon, Fiona knew that any complaint to the driver would only result in more vulgar remarks and crude laughs. The old man had already fondled her arse—twice. If she wanted to be manhandled, she would’ve stayed in Ballybofey. Afraid to fall sleep, she whiled away the hours plotting to escape at Derry’s Farmer’s Market.

Although her brief fling with PJ was exciting, she’d suffered the curse of the Glackin women—a red rash circling her stomach followed in the coming weeks by extreme morning sickness. He’d planted one in her breadbasket, an inconvenience that didn’t fit into her plans of bettering herself. Despite her Catholic upbringing, she hadn’t discarded abortion, a solution condemned in her close-knit farming community.

The opportunity to escape came when a member of the Royal Irish Constabulary faced away while directing traffic. Fiona snatched a cabbage and flung it, hitting the RIC officer dead on the back of the neck, sending his spiked helmet crashing to the dirt.

The indignity of losing his gear probably bothered him more than the cabbage, which he likely took home. Blowing his whistle, he retrieved his helmet and took off after the departing wagon.

The following brawl enabled Fiona to flee. Wandering the empty streets, she decided to forego breakfast to conserve what little money she possessed. Opposite the storied walls of ancient Derry, she spotted an employment sign hanging from a post and joined the queue of men and women snaking from a doorway and out down the street. Three hours passed before she finally crossed the threshold. Apparently, she’d caught someone’s attention, for while the others were assigned to underlings, she was pulled to personally meet the owner.

Craig Lewis shamelessly inspected the well-endowed maiden. Name?

Fiona Glackin.

Fiona, huh. Catholic, I presume? Farmer’s daughter, I’ll wager. What type of employment are you looking for in Londonderry?

Anything a’tall; I’m strong and can do housework.

At that moment, the door opened and a handsome rogue looked in. Craig, the bar’s been open for hours. Aren’t ya done yet? Then the newcomer stopped, all but drooling as if Fiona was a harlot from a nearby brothel. Craig, you’re a devil, keeping this delightful creature all to yourself?

Being the center of attraction, Fiona capitalized the moment, lifting her petticoat just enough to display a well-formed thigh.

Without waiting for an invitation from Craig, the rake strode across the room and extended his hand. "I’m Roger Wolf of the other Belfast Wolfs, and you look like you’re starving. How’s about joining me for lunch?"

What do you mean the other wolves?

"That’s Wolfs, not wolves. We’re the ones not from Harland and Wolff Shipbuilders. And by fate’s divine hand and sense of humor, we’re not only related, but bitter rivals, as well. My father dropped an f so as not to be confused with his half-cousin Gustav Wilhelm Wolff. Both emigrated from Hamburg, but mine changed his name to Bruce in order to appear British. Then Roger turned, Sorry, Craig, that pug you’re so excited about wouldn’t last eighteen rounds against my brawlers. But we’ll continue that discussion some other time." With a trumping wink at Craig, Roger took Fiona by the arm and guided her out the door.

Feeling like a lady for the first time in her life, she downed the Waterfoot Pub’s blood pudding like the starving girl she was and gulped the warm bitters as though it were milk. The latter, more than Roger’s charms, was how they’d ended up in his hotel, horizontal for the remainder of the afternoon. Following dinner, the two cozied again for the night. The next morning, Fiona again found herself on Roger’s arm, boarding a train bound for Belfast. Neither had luggage. Roger brought none, and Fiona’s cardboard suitcase wasn’t worth the effort to lug to Northern Ireland’s most fashionable city. Besides, her new beau promised an entire wardrobe the minute they arrived.

Their shopping spree was put off because of a messenger waiting at Belfast’s Great Victoria Station. Mr. Wolf, a hand came forward, a dispatch from your father.

Roger took the folded paper and read aloud the communication. "‘I’ve just received a preliminary report on the cause of the sinking of RMS Titanic. Come to the yard as swiftly as possible.’"

Face glowing with joy, Roger swung Fiona around. We’ll shop later, I promise—and if this is the glorious news I believe it to be, we’ll be purchasing twice as much. Then a whisper in her ear, "The ship Gustav built for the White Star Line may have been defective. This means their competitor, the Cunard Line, will now have to transfer their business to us.

Fiona stared, her face not comprehending.

Don’t you see? Roger grabbed her arm and told the messenger to bring the carriage around. Belfast’s other Wolfs have arrived.

The offices of Wolf Shipyard stood a scene of chaotic merriment with backslappers busily partying and downing whiskey by the tumbler. Roger strode in while Fiona hesitated for but a moment.

The jovial mood made his question irrelevant but he asked it as much to call attention as for any need of an answer. "Tell me, you snockered bastards, about the Titanic, is it true?"

An older man, handsome, and weathered with money, turned and bear-hugged him. We haven’t all the details of the official inquiry, but yes—it’s been confirmed, the rivets were defective. Some corner-cutting slough used sub-standard iron; the heads broke off during impact, sections of the plate came apart. Then, noticing Fiona, the man all but pushed Roger away, before snatching her into a boisterous embrace. Son this ravishing creature, you must tell me her name?

But Roger was gone. With a scotch magically in hand, he had already crossed the room to celebrate with his mates.

Taking advantage of his son’s distracted attention, Bruce Wolf hustled Fiona off to his private office. After clinking together several glasses of the finest amber liquor Scotland had to boast, Bruce swept the papers from his desk then the last of his unfamiliarity with the lady Fiona.

Leaving the merrymakers, Bruce called for his carriage and took Fiona to his mansion on Lisavon Street where it shared shadows with the now dark estate of his cousin Gustav, a perfect perch to keep a keen eye on the activities of his scorned rival.

This time, the teenaged Fiona neither encouraged nor resisted any pretense of seduction. Lying on her back, the old man snoring beside, she decided his impulsive act would be the better were it to take credit for the Glackin curse. Massaging her blackmailing scheme, Fiona endured the stale odor of a bad breath made the worse by the lingering pungent of single malt.

EDWARD (REED) WARD

With the fare to Kildare’s Maynooth Seminary provided by the local priest, and provisions supplemented with soda bread furnished by PJ’s ma, Reed waved goodbye to his family and closest friend through the rain-smeared window of the Dublin-bound bus, wishing with all his heart that PJ were accompanying him. It’d be years before the two would meet again because no priest is ever assigned to his home parish. Reed used literature to overcome his feeling of desolation.

Although doubtful that any were literate, Reed made certain the few travelers occupying the nearly-empty bus couldn’t see what he was about to study. Satisfied, he turned his attention to the books brought for the journey. Opening the one telling of the Tuatha de Danann, followers of the Goddess Danu, he slowly and carefully turned the frayed and yellowed pages. The almost unintelligible script of the long-dead author described three tribes surviving a quaking of the earth, and the subsequent belching, which sent rivers of molten soil down a mountainside to destroy their island civilization. One of the tribes, the Tuatha, fled north, where in Ireland they encountered and engaged the satanic Firblogs. Holding their own, the religion of the Tuatha spread until turning underground after its defeat by the invading Milesians. The only direct trace to those ancients, the Lia Fail, the Danann Stone, now resided at Tara, the venerable home of Ireland’s kings.

Reed’s body shook with anticipation at the thought of revisiting Tara and the nearby Boyne Valley where the passage grave at Newgrange took him back to that time so long ago, when the builders of those monuments, whom he believed to be descendants of the Tuatha, once ruled a peaceful land.

With the suburbs of Dublin taking shape on the horizon, he cautiously hid the cherished book beneath his belongings, lest Father Sheehan, disciplinarian of Ireland’s first Catholic seminary, discover it in his possession.

Once settled in his windowless cell, Reed found a small volume, Cuchulainn, The Cattle Raid of Cooly, buried in the bottom of his sparse luggage. Tears ran freely when he read Mrs. Sleavin’s note:

Timothy would want you to have this. He left it

behind for fear the salt water would ruin it.

PJ

Three of them, strangers all, were finding pleasure in toppling O’Dwyer’s cart, when PJ rounded the corner onto Ballybofey’s Glenfin Street, and rushed to assist the old vegetable huckster. Grabbing the first by the scuff of the neck and tossing him back, he then plowed into the other two. Early surprise catching them off guard made easy work of the lot, with the trio taking off toward Donegal Road without so much as an over-the-shoulder to see if their attackers were one or 20. Pleased with his performance, PJ began picking up the scattered turnips and potatoes when another stranger approached, a well-dressed, middle-aged male manifesting a widow’s peak.

The newcomer extended his hand, studious eyes appraising PJ, who was gripping a potato as though it were a hurling sliotar ready to be tossed in self-defense. Holding up his hands in confirmation of innocent intent, the stranger smiled before re-offering the salutation. Excuse me, I was just …

PJ shook the man’s hand. I’m PJ Sleavin … and you are?

Clarke. William Clarke. I’ve been scouting for lads much like yourself, strapping fellows who’re capable of not only using their fists, but who’re also not afraid to use them. I like your style, taking on three louts without so much as a hesitation. Yes, indeed. I am impressed. If you’ve the time, could we go somewhere for a palaver?

A what?

A discussion, lad.

This here’s good as any, PJ said, tossing O’Dwyer’s roots into the cart.

Clarke produced a fatherly smile. I manage a stable of beef-eating pugilists out of Londonderry.

You manage what?

Boxers, my boy, boxers. And never a finer bunch to be found, save they’d be the better if you’d care to join their company.

William Clarke’s smooth talk and his way of pronouncing Derry’s name like a Protestant made PJ wary. What’s in it for me ’sides pissin’ blood and blowing snot through a broken nose? I’ve seen the pugs, off-’n-comin’ home with cauliflower ears and brains all scrambled. There’s probably a few in McGinley’s right now, shooting down pints to tales of their glory days. Maybe you better have a go at them?

I’ve seen them myself, Mr. Sleavin. But truth be known, what you are referencing are brawlers. And brawling is not what my boyos are about. I teach mine to box. Mine are fistologists who practice their science on the faces of the other guys.

And who are these other guys, exactly?

Louts, my boy. A slap on PJ’s shoulder. Of the sort you’ve only just routed, and as I’m sure you’re aware, they are to be found everywhere high, and all places low.

I’ll t’ink about it, but I’ve the season to finish for the Donegal Juniors and me schoolwork to worry about. Maybe in a year or two. Write your name and address down. If you see me, you see me.

A card, crisp and sharp-edged, snapped into appearance, its sleight of hand conjuration the sort to make a master prestidigitator proud. When you’re ready. And lad?

Yes?

While you’re off playin’ football, and practicing your script and your numbers, be best to also set your ruminations to G-P-L-C.

What’s that?

"Glory, pride, lasses, and coin. And of the four, never discount glory. Many’s a man out there with nothin’ to swallow his pints with. But you … well, you’ve a gift