The Tragic Isle

By N.P. Kennedy

Like many other veterans of World War I, Bernard Thompson ends up in London – jobless, hungry and homeless. To gain employment, he signs up to be an auxiliary to the Royal Irish Constabulary (RIC) in Ireland but is misled as to the role to which he has been enlisted and is appalled by the unruly behaviour of his fellow recruits.

While he struggles to find a way out of the dilemma, his patrol is ambushed and he is left for dead at the side of the road. Gravely injured, Bernard is brought to a rebel household, where he is cared for and slowly regains his health. He acquires an understanding of the Irish cause and is eventually trusted to join the rebel force.

This is a story of love and conflict, loyalty and compromise during the rebel resistance, the post treaty civil war and the final declaration of peace.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Manuscript Publisher
• Release date: Apr 9, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224643479

Book preview

Acknowledgements

Illustrations used on the front cover include:

Four Courts on Fire from Essex Quay, June 1922 by Joe Rodgers, aged 17. Copyright status unknown.

Detail from the cover image of the supplement to Irish Life, Vol. XL., No. 19 (14 July 1922). The illustration is signed ‘Murphy’. Copyright status unknown. Retrieved from Dublin City Library and Archive collection, The Civil War In Dublin: Images from Irish Life (July 1922).

Dirty Green by Elaine on Flickr used under Creative Commons 2.0 license. See EJMPhoto – www.flickr.com/people/elainejmiller/ – for further information.

The illustration that features at the beginning of Book Two depicts areas of conflict in Ireland at the outset of the Irish Civil War in July 1922. Copyright status unknown.

Our thanks to Oliver Franklin for editing and proofreading assistance.

Foreword

This book was found among my father’s many papers some years ago. He was an interesting man, a prolific reader and writer. He was born in 1908 and lived in Townsend Street in Dublin, where the family owned a general store and so would have had first-hand exposure to the Easter Rising and the subsequent turmoil in the city. The story spans some of the recruitment of World War I veterans as auxiliaries to the RIC (the infamous Black and Tans), through the rebel resistance, the post-treaty Civil War and final declaration of peace. It is a story of civil and personal conflict, of love and despair plus courage and commitment. The book is a valuable legacy for our family, which we would like to share with you.

Ailis Kennedy

Author’s Preface

Within the boundaries of Ireland have been enacted stories of true romance that rival, in weirdness and unreality, the fantasies of pagan saga. Her history teems with material for the romance writer; and many noted in that field have found in its pages, scope sufficient to indulge the most gifted of their sect. The years 1919-1923 brought their share of scarcely believable tales, and in that period is laid the scenes in the accompanying volume.

It is far from the author’s intention to do the work of the historian: that he leaves to pens, the least of which is infinitely more capable than that he wields. His primary concern is in weaving the fates of the characters created in his mind and modelled entirely in his imagination, through that stirring period of Ireland’s story, to the conclusion of most romances.

Here and now, he takes it upon himself to state that the actions of the various bodies named in this book, which he has dared to describe, are matter of fact. It has been his pleasure to hear some of the details of the here recorded ambushes and incidences, recited in the exploits, which exploits, he ventures to say, will have their niche in the history of time, when it comes to be written. The scenes of the occurrences have, for obvious reasons, been laid in parts of the country other than those in which they actually took place; and various other details connected with them, not incidental to the narrative, have been expunged.

In the time of which he has written, the author was a schoolboy and saw none of the far-reaching effects of those men’s actions, which were then making history. He enjoyed the lively times and excitement with all the carefree gaiety of a boyish heart and, it must be confessed, regretted the cessation of both. Now, however, the story is all in all to him, and that he might give it to an impartial reader to enjoy, he has been at great pains to avoid references likely to cause bitterness. The time for such is gone; what is past is past and all rancour and disunion must, at some time, be purged of them, if the People of Ireland are to live in peace with each other. That being so, the present time is the time to begin anew, the present, the opportunity for the Irish Nation to come together as one and pursue as one the same path to the Ideal that every Irishman, worthy of the name, cannot be born without.

Note to Readers

Fianna Éireann (Soldiers of Ireland) was the youth organisation of the Republican movement of Ireland. Boys of twelve, aye and less, and upwards to man’s estate were enrolled in its ranks, their duties being to carry messages and to perform non-combatant service, generally; though on many occasions, some of them bore arms with high honour.

The Cumann na mBan (Society of Women) acted the parts of nurses, cooks and arms-carriers for the Irish Republican soldiers and performed numerous other duties. They too acted the role of soldiers with distinction when the exigencies of the Cause commanded it.

A Last Word

None of the characters in this book have any real existence. They were brought to life in his mind and combined with the adventurous narratives told to the author by his friends who enacted them, to make a story likely to interest, and that it may do so is his earnest wish.

Contents

Acknowledgements

Foreword

Author’s Preface

Note to Readers

A Last Word

THE TRAGIC ISLE: Book One

CHAPTER I: Old Contemptibles

CHAPTER II: Every Means Necessary

CHAPTER III: The Law of Reprisal

CHAPTER IV: The Whispering Valley

CHAPTER V: Anything Might Happen

CHAPTER VI: I Have No People

CHAPTER VII: No Going Back

CHAPTER VIII: Not for Turning

CHAPTER IX: An Enemy of Her Country

CHAPTER X: The Brotherhood

CHAPTER XI: The Soul of Ireland

CHAPTER XII: A Stream of Death

CHAPTER XIII: The Robin Calls

CHAPTER XIV: Hell Erupts!

CHAPTER XV: Soldiers of the Republic

THE TRAGIC ISLE: The Second Book

CHAPTER XVI: Step Together

CHAPTER XVII: Dark Clouds

CHAPTER XVIII: If Civil War Comes

CHAPTER XIX: City Life

CHAPTER XX: Methods of Persuasion

CHAPTER XXI: In the Shadows

CHAPTER XXII: For Old Times’ Sake

CHAPTER XXIII: Fierce Expressions

CHAPTER XXIV: Definite Orders

CHAPTER XXV: That the Republic Might Live

CHAPTER XXVI: Moving On

About the Author: Reflections of Mahon and Ailis Kennedy

THE TRAGIC ISLE

by N.P. KENNEDY

~ Book One ~

CHAPTER I

Old Contemptibles

Bernard Thompson was hungry. Had been for nearly three days now. His waist, he felt, had shrunk almost to his spinal column, around which a belt was tightened, until not the least fraction of tightness remained.

He turned into Oxford Street, with his frayed trouser-ends and broken boots; his ragged jacket and cloth cap; his beard, uncultivated and wild, blowing in the fresh breeze. Pedestrians occasionally marked him, but mostly passed him by without notice. Such sights were too common.

Just as he reached a well-known restaurant, the doors opened, and a well-dressed man came out. The gorgeous commissionaire acknowledged the friendly smile of the patron, and his Cold morning, Jenkins, with an obsequious salute, and an affirmation of the observation, and held the door of the car while the warmly clad man entered it.

A grim, cynical smile played about the ragged man’s features. Cold morning…? What was cold to that man? How did he know there was such a sensation? Cold! The crisp air of the morning was like torrid heat compared to the night’s dark hours: compared to the deadly chill of the pavements, the knife-like thrust of the blast that always found him shelterless and hungry. Hungry? With such evidence of plenty, abounding before his very eyes?

Motorcars that cost thousands of pounds, purred luxuriously upon the roadway; the doors of the huge emporiums were continuously moving, to allow rich buyers in and out, and everywhere there were signs of limitless wealth. And he was hungry? No, not that he was hungry, so much, as that he had an insistent dull ache in the region of his stomach.

Threading his way through the crowded thoroughfare, he looked casually at the displays of goods in the shop windows. Once, or twice, he was eyed suspiciously by policemen; but he was used to that and had ceased to mind it. When his thoughts would cause him to look about him, he sometimes collided with passers-by. They generally received his apology with a supercilious air of contempt and passed on, nor observed the glint that kindled in his eyes, and died quickly, to be replaced by that bitter smile, so cynical.

Had there really been a war? Had millions of men opposed millions in deadly strife? Or was it but an hallucination due to his famished condition? He crossed the road at Oxford Circus and jumped hurriedly onto the island to avoid a careering ’bus. The expletive of the driver awoke a chord in his memory. Yes, there had been a war. The driver of that ’bus proved the fact beyond doubt, by his ejaculation. He recognised the driver from the army. Many times had Thompson heard him use it to drive men into a hail of death. Many, many times.

Sergeant Allen had been a perfect model of the military machine; was considered, in fact, a veritable joint of the vertebrae of the English Army. But he was a good sort, and had proved such, over and over again. What was wonderful, though, he had a job!

The thought of having a job caused him to reflect on the countless times he had waited in line for work, with many others, only to have his hopes dashed yet again. Too many people and too few jobs to be had. Some of these people he recognised as having been involved in the war, now no longer needed and considered a burden on society.

He moved from the traffic island and continued down the other side of the road, the cold numbing his senses somewhat. A gust of wind blew in his direction, carrying a warm cap with it. He picked it up and stood searching for its owner. He was stunned when a kindly, smartly dressed woman dropped some coins in the cap he held. After about ten minutes, it was clear the owner would remain a mystery so Bernard, with some misgivings, put the cap on his own head and savoured the protection from the severe cold. Although hungry, he was embarrassed to be thought of as a beggar. Still, he now had some money and felt less destitute, albeit a temporary situation.

He bought some bread and while he was eating it he was aware of a figure on the pathway like himself, looking longingly at the meagre food. Bernard recognised the man as someone in the same situation as himself and offered to share. The stranger looked at Bernard with surprise and accepted the offer. They ate companionably and started to talk.

You look smart with your cap, a real toff.

Bernard laughed at the description at odds with his appearance and his companion also laughed merrily as Thompson bent to retrieve a crust that he had let fall.

The food they had shared was only a drop in the ocean to the two famished men; serving only to reawaken the keen pangs, which usage had dulled. The well-set-up figure of the man with the cap drew from his companion the remark, What mob were you belong to?

The London Rifles, answered Thompson. Were you over there?

Yes. The Black Watch, replied the other, and then asked, Are you long out?

About twelve months. You?

I lost my job last Christmas. Had a row with the son of the boss. You know how it is. He was kept out of ‘it’ through influence, and then tried to slander the chaps that died. Called them bloody fools. Maybe they were, but many of them were my pals and I couldn’t see it his way, so I punched him. He had me arrested and I got a month for assault, hard labour too. If I see him again, I’ll be sent up for life.

They wandered into the park in Leicester Square and sat down. For a time, they watched people use the park as a short cut, and some in their own predicament, lolling about the benches. Time passed.

Where do you kip? Thompson was addressed.

Oh! Anywhere the night finds me. I am not by any means selective and I generally find that the place I use is not half as bad as the place I used.

I know a watchman down in Victoria whose fire we can sit at. He was with me in the army. Sometimes he does have some grub. Care to come along?

Rather, said Thompson.

Leaving the park as it was closed, the two down-and-outs trod along the streets wearily. Bitterness rankled in their breasts as they saw and felt the plenty that others wallowed in, while they who had renounced everything to serve their country had not a crust, or a place to shelter them.

Ten o’clock chimed as they came to the ripped-up road and went along to the big coke fire. When the night watchman returned from tending his lamps, he said, Goodnight, sir, to the hatless man, and gave the other a severe scrutiny.

There’s a bit o’ somethin’ under the seat there, if you’ll take it out. I’ll set the tea on the fire.

Thompson thought it was queer for anyone to address his companion as sir. He looked at him intently by the light of the fire, as he sat opposite him, and unfolded the somethin’ he had taken from under the seat in the shelter. He observed that his companion looked like a man of breeding. He had not spoken with the accent of someone who generally falls into the gutter. That scrape of his must have queered him with his people.

The tea sizzled against the sides of the tin can on the fire and it was removed by the watchman. Empty tinned milk cans were used as cups and the scalding liquid was drained to the dregs; and the few hunks of bread that constituted the somethin’ devoured to the last crumb. A second drop in the ocean. However, they had both learned long ago to be easily satisfied and they swapped yarns with the friendly watchman until he had again to make his rounds.

Two small piles of tarred blocks made admirable seats for the two men, as they rested their elbows on their knees and spread their hands in front of them. The red glow illuminated their features and sprayed about them, to fade into insignificance as it met the glaring light of the streetlamps.

Said Thompson looking across at his companion, Like old times, eh!

No response was made to the remark and he withdrew his gaze to the fire again.

I say, my friend, suddenly exclaimed his companion. "I saw you wonder when old Cyril called me sir. It seemed to arouse your curiosity. Well, I will tell you my story briefly. My parents were accounted rich before the war. They possessed influence in Edinburgh. I was born there, by the way, and was their only son, and were considered people of some importance. Old Cyril used to work in one of our factories.

I had a commission in the army, and when the war broke out, I went overseas. Dad went bankrupt while I was away, and when the ‘affair’ in France ended I resigned, with the intention of trying to save some of the business. But it was no use. Things had gone too far. With what little influence that remained, Dad placed me in an office here. The rest you know, except that my name is Fred MacDonald.

Bernard looked at MacDonald when he had finished. He was smiling. Bernard gave a short laugh.

My history is not so romantic, he said. My name, at least the name I have always answered to, is Bernard Thompson. Parents never existed for me. I was brought up an orphan and when I was old enough, apprenticed to the engineering trade. I was still serving my indentures when I joined up; and the rest is better unknown.

From behind the watchman’s box a tall, uniformed figure stepped. The buttons were dark on his coat, but a reflection from the fire shone in the peak of his cap.

MacDonald said, Good night, Inspector.

Good night, men, answered the police inspector. Where’s Cyril?

I think he has gone to trim the lamps, said MacDonald. He’ll be back soon anyway.

He’s coming this way now, Thompson said, craning his neck to peer around a pile of dirt.

The inspector warmed his hands and stamped his feet. When he heard Thompson speak, he gave him a keen glance. Bernard looked up just then, and the light of recognition leapt into his eyes, but was immediately suppressed. The officer of police had seen it though and bent to look into his face. He jumped upright to walk away, but his arm was caught firmly, and a voice said quietly, Hello Bernard! I have searched all over for you!

He was recognised without a doubt. With eyes that glistened in spite of himself, he stretched out his hand to the officer, whose hand had likewise advanced; the sinews on their wrists stood out like violin strings in the hard grip.

Hello, sir! said Thompson.

Damn the sir! We are not in the army now. Where did you get to at all? I told you to keep in touch with me, and you promised you would. A nice promise indeed. How long have you been like this?

Oh! Not long, was the vague answer.

Hm… long enough to have starved to death; and you kept it from me after what I owe you.

You don’t –

Don’t let’s go over that again. You know right well what I owe you, but your pride won’t allow you to admit it. Anyway, it isn’t fair since I am a ward of a great moral debt to you, for you to forbid me to repay a little of it. But you will have to let me help you now. The barracks is not far away. Will you wait here ’til I come back, or will you come along with me?

I’ll wait, said Thompson.

The watchman entered his box just then and looked at the uncommon sight of a police inspector talking familiarly to an apparently disreputable tramp. The former said to him, Cyril, hold him here until I get back, and walked swiftly away.

Fred MacDonald would not ask for particulars of the queer scene, but Cyril was not so delicately minded.

How did you meet him? asked Thompson.

Over there, came the answer. I pulled him in from NO MAN’S LAND when he got laid out, and he thinks he owes me the world now.

MacDonald looked at him with interest. You put your own gas mask on him, didn’t you? And got a whiff yourself before you got him in. There is a V.C. Bernard Thompson, you him?

Bernard nodded.

Then that’s Major Reynolds?

Bernard nodded again. They relapsed into silence. With a load of parcels the inspector came up and placed them on a shovel. There were many kinds of food, but what mattered to the starving couple more than the variety was, that there was plenty of it.

Thompson stopped once to unloosen his belt. MacDonald hadn’t one and so he kept eating. When every morsel of food had vanished, they wiped their mouths with their sleeves and looked satisfied. The inspector was gratified at their satisfaction.

"I’ll relieve you of your guests