Rebels Read online

  Clarke was particularly pleased with Pearse. He was becoming very important, and not just as an orator. That frank face of his would deceive an angel. He had the slyness of innocence; he was a dove with a serpent’s tooth. He was now wholeheartedly committed to bloodshed in Ireland’s cause.

  ‘Too many rebels,’ Tom told Sean McDermott, ‘funk the ultimate test. Pearse ain’t one of them. Under that schoolmasterly exterior, I reckon, is a spine of steel.’

  In Room 40, Hall chanced to hear that a British trawler had recently hooked an iron-bound sea-chest in its nets. He investigated and found that it contained a book of codes which he believed had come from one of the four German destroyers sunk on the day the Russians handed them the Magdeburg codes.

  He had a hunch that it was Berlin’s code for communicating with naval attachés abroad. There was great excitement in Room 40 when his hunch proved to be correct.

  His team was growing all the time in wireless operators and cryptographers. Part of their job was intercepting Bernstorff’s messages to the Wilhelmstrasse.

  From them they learned that Cohalan in the States had advised against publicizing the Findlay affair until there was full proof. Also that Devoy was sending a priest from Philadelphia, John T. Nicholson, to recruit for the Brigade. ‘He is in every way qualified. Speaks Irish well. Has visited Germany and is full of sympathy with the work we want done. Born in Ireland but is an American citizen.’

  In Ireland, Redmond, in contrast to Casement, was at the height of his popularity. On Saturday 19 December, he held a rally at Limerick Racecourse. It was a biting, wintry day with the grass already sere, but over 10,000 Volunteers turned out to greet him.

  The entire country was at fever-pitch. At mass meetings in Kilkenny, Waterford and Derry, the Irish had been wildly enthusiastic at the prospect of Home Rule.

  Redmond was overcome with emotion as he stood on the platform at Limerick. Home Rule, he told them, was their form of nationalism. It would make them full members of the Empire. The Bill was already law, only suspended for the duration. Yes, this war would not last long, not with Irishmen fighting the Germans.

  There were more prolonged cheers.

  Just before Christmas, Birrell told Nathan that a new viceroy was to be announced on New Year’s Day. Lord Wimborne, formerly Sir Ivor Churchill Guest, was Winston’s cousin.

  In Birrell’s view, he was a crude young man without any fine strands of character. ‘But if he manages to keep his temper, with that charming wife of his, he might not do too badly. He might even do really well.’

  Two days after Christmas, Casement met with Herr Zimmermann to sign a treaty.

  By its terms, Irish PoWs who volunteered for the Brigade would be fed and equipped at German expense; they would fight under the Irish flag and be led by Irish officers. The Germans agreed to send the Brigade ‘to Ireland with efficient military support, and with an ample supply of arms and ammunition for the Volunteers in an attempt to recover Irish freedom by force of arms.’

  The treaty was not to be published until Casement had conscripted a large enough expeditionary force.

  Already realizing his prospects were nil, he made plans to return to Limburg and go through the motions.

  On 28 December, Birrell passed on to Nathan a flimsy from the Foreign Office. He summed up Casement as having ‘a strain of madness and vanity’. In Germany, he was in touch with Burke Cochrane, an influential American lawyer gone wrong, and in New York with the old Fenian, John Devoy. He seemed to be getting at Irish PoWs in Germany.

  Birrell wrote: ‘It is all very vague about numbers and nationalities. Are they coming as open enemies – to storm our coasts, and seize our Irish castles – or as secret agents of the Kaiser? However, we must be ready for either dread contingency! The weather will upset their stomachs if not their plans!’

  Nathan did not take things so lightly. He cancelled his vacation in England. He also met with General Friend, Army Commander in Ireland, and Chamberlain, Inspector-General of the Royal Irish Constabulary, who both assured him their men were on their toes. He asked for increased surveillance of old IRB men in Limerick and Belfast. He brought his list of potential rebels up to date and tightened postal censorship.

  In particular, he kept a close watch on MacNeill, Chairman of the Volunteers, especially after they intercepted a letter from Casement asking him what arms he required from Germany.

  After the loneliest Christmas of his life, Casement left Berlin on Wednesday 30 December on the night train for Limburg. By the time he arrived the next evening, he was exhausted and suffering from a bad cold. He went straight to bed where he saw the New Year in.

  ‘My God,’ he moaned, as he heard the clock chime, ‘will the whole of 1915 be like this?’

  On 2 January, in overcoat and muffler, he drove up the steep hill to the camp. Seeing him, Irish PoWs muttered, ‘Here comes the bloody Boer,’ and, ‘The fecking Fenian’s been let loose again.’

  He climbed on to a table to address eighty out of the 2,400 prisoners in the camp. Sniffing, his voice hoarse, his legs shaky, he explained the purpose of the Brigade.

  ‘If you decide to join, men, you will be guests of the German government. You will be switched to another camp near Berlin where there is better food and accommodation.’

  ‘Champagne and caviare, eh?’ one of the Munsters said in a mock upper-crust English accent.

  ‘If Germany defeats the British on the seas—’

  ‘Some bloody if,’ a Dublin Fusilier chipped in, as the PoWs edged closer and closer.

  ‘In that case,’ Casement continued nervously, ‘I will see to it you are landed in Ireland where our fellow countrymen will help you drive the British out of our land.’

  ‘And if Germany gets its come-uppance?’ a Ranger yelled.

  ‘Then you will be sent to America on a free passage with money in your pockets to begin a new life.’

  With the soldiers now only inches away, an angry cry went up, ‘How much is Germany paying you, mate?’

  With the table starting to rock, Casement jumped to the ground where he was jostled and elbowed. He swung his umbrella around to defend himself until German guards rushed to form a wall around him.

  Back at his hotel, the desk clerk said, ‘A letter for you, sir.’

  A sour look spread over Casement’s face as he read it. It was from Devoy, complimenting him on his splendid work in Germany.

  His only hope was that Adler was getting useful information from the British Minister in Christiania.

  ‘I have now more details about Sir Roger’s return to Ireland.’ Findlay, in his swivel chair, gestured for Christensen to continue. ‘He has already booked his passage.’

  ‘On?’

  ‘The Mjolnir. I could go and meet it at Gothenburg before it sails to Christiansand. If the money is right.’

  Findlay stroked his perfectly smooth cheek. ‘I will certainly think about it.’

  ‘Think!’ Adler roared, moving to the door. ‘What’s there to think about? I’m going to tell Casement about you.’ He left the room, slamming the door behind him.

  Moments later, the door opened quietly and he returned.

  Findlay had not budged. He opened a drawer, drew out a bank roll and, as Adler’s tongue licked his upper lip, counted out 2,000 kroner.

  ‘By the way,’ Findlay said, pleasantly, ‘there’s another whopping amount for you if you help us capture our fugitive.’

  ‘I would need that in writing.’

  ‘Come, come—’

  ‘In writing,’ Christensen insisted, ‘or no deal.’

  Findlay shrugged. This was wartime and, as a minister of the Crown, he was simply putting a price on a traitor’s head. ‘Very well.’

  ‘On official notepaper,’ Christensen said.

  After the briefest of pauses to take in the nerve of the man: ‘Why ever not, my dear fellow?’

  He wrote out, on British Legation notepaper, a pledge of £5,000 reward and signed it with a flour
ish.

  Only afterwards did he ask London’s permission. Nicolson gave it but warned him not to put anything in writing.

  A few days later, the Mjolnir arrived in Christiania.

  Findlay’s naval attaché reported, ‘He was not on board, sir.’

  ‘Jesus!’

  There was a scratching on the door. It was Christensen.

  ‘This mess,’ he said, ‘is probably due to faulty German intelligence. If I had been able to contact Casement in Berlin I would have forewarned you.’

  ‘I’m sure you would have, my dear chap.’

  When Christensen left, Findlay sat brooding for a long time. The truth had finally dawned on him; the man was a double-agent.

  He wrote to London admitting that he had not the requisite talent for probing the mind of such an immoral and loathsome beast.

  Christensen returned to Berlin with Findlay’s letter. He now knew it would not bring him £5,000 but it might at least improve his standing with the German authorities. With Casement out of town, he handed it in to the Foreign Office.

  Wedel read it once, twice, with incredulity. A British Minister could not possibly be so naïve. Christensen must have pilfered a sheet of legation notepaper and written it himself. He decided to check with their man in Christiania.

  Within days, Oberndorff sent him on a hand-written letter of condolence he had received from Findlay a few years before. The writing matched that of the letter brought by Christensen.

  Wedel wrote to Oberndorff saying that the British Minister was incriminated in an attempt to snatch Casement but he was to have no further dealings with The Informer.

  To Wedel, the affair was a distraction. He simply put the two Findlay letters in his file.

  On 23 January, Casement returned to Berlin, tormented by doubts about Adler’s loyalty. He had his suspicions but could not forget his tender care on the journey into exile.

  He was at a very low point when Herr Meyer happened to mention Findlay’s letter. This was marvellous news. It proved two things: Adler was no liar and Findlay was vicious and unprincipled. He could use this letter to discredit not just him but the British FO and government, as well.

  Except Wedel refused even to let him see it.

  He created a scene but Wedel would not yield. Casement, therefore, wrote an open letter to Sir Edward Grey about the whole affair and arranged for it to be typed. Since the German Foreign Office refused to back him, he would take it to Norway himself. He and Adler would confront Findlay together. If this meant the end of an Irish Brigade, so be it.

  Sunday 31 January found him and Adler at the Sassnitz ferry, facing one of the bleakest outlooks in the world. Only then did it finally hit him that his plan was crazy.

  His body went rigid, his eyes glazed over. The long-expected collapse was upon him. He held out his arm and allowed Adler to grip it and lead him, like a tired old man, to the hotel to await the train back to Berlin.

  On the last weekend of January, a more relaxed Nathan was vacationing in England where he talked with Birrell and lunched with Wimborne, the Viceroy-elect.

  No sooner was he back in Dublin than he discussed with General Friend the problems arising from the arming of the Volunteers. He spoke with Hamilton Norway, Head of the Post Office, assuring him that the IRB, once 40,000 strong, now numbered at most a thousand.

  Chamberlain of the Royal Irish Constabulary told Nathan of a series of lectures at the Dublin Headquarters of MacNeill’s Volunteers. The chief instructors were James Connolly, the Union leader, and Thomas MacDonagh, the Brigade Commander.

  ‘What are they teaching, Chamberlain?’

  ‘The art of warfare in towns, sir, with emphasis on communications, mapping, street-fighting.’

  He handed over a verbatim report of a lecture by Connolly.

  Nathan, an ex-soldier himself, saw at once that he knew a thing or two. Connolly’s thesis was that a street is like a mountain defile. Forces moving through a street are easy targets for snipers posted at windows or on roofs. Barricades across streets which cannot be attacked by artillery are impregnable to frontal assault. The best way to control a street is to take one house and create a tunnel inside it to other houses.

  Nathan read aloud, ‘Every difficulty that exists for the operation of regular troops in mountains is multiplied a hundredfold in a city.’

  Chamberlain said, ‘MacNeill, their Chief of Staff, says all this talk of street-fighting is purely in the event of an emergency, say, should conscription be imposed on Ireland or arms be confiscated by the Government.’

  ‘I understand,’ Nathan said thoughtfully. ‘Thank you.’

  Casement booked himself into a sanatorium in the Grünewald where he had a private room. Months of depression and paranoia were to follow, during which the Irish Brigade made no progress.

  In the Wilhelmstrasse, a censor stopped a letter home of a Dublin PoW, Private Smythe: ‘Dear Mother, I am very pleased to receive your letter yesterday. They are hoping to form an Irish Brigade here, but we will die first – Johnnie.’

  In New York, Devoy was furious with Casement for allowing himself to be side-tracked by a peripheral matter like Findlay’s letter. He was only now hearing of his ham-handed way of recruiting. Instead of speaking to each man privately, he had addressed men in large groups, Catholics and Orangemen.

  Worst of all, he heard that Casement was offering the Irish Brigade to the Germans to help liberate Egypt. He was plainly off his rocker. The Clan had told him all along that the only place for the Irish to fight was Ireland.

  ‘Liberate Egypt, for Chrissake!’

  He decided to confide in Casement no more.

  In Dublin, with the new Viceroy due, Birrell told his Private Secretary, Sam Power, to impress on him that he could be as ornamental as was possible in wartime.

  ‘But do explain to this bear, Sam, that he must not dance on my platform.’

  ‘Do my best,’ Power said, with a grin.

  ‘If he gets notions, suggest to him the usual grand tour. Above all, make sure he tells everyone that he is merely the prelude to Home Rule and not Viceroy for ever and ever, Amen.’

  Birrell was facing a more personal problem. His wife, Eleanor, was dying. The inoperable brain tumour, diagnosed a couple of years before, was now much worse. He visited her often in hospital. She did not recognize him, living uncomprehendingly in an imaginary world where there was no pain. He sat for hours at her bedside, holding her hand, the tears running down his cheeks. Ireland and Home Rule and Roger Casement were very far from his mind.

  She died on 10 March, leaving him free to go to Dublin.

  On 10 March, Pearse, Plunkett, Hobson and The O’Rahilly were made commandants on the HQ staff of the Irish Volunteers.

  Officers of the Dublin city battalions were also appointed. Ned Daly was to be in charge of No 1, Thomas MacDonagh of No 2, Eamon de Valera of No 3 and Eamonn Kent of No 4. All but de Valera and The O’Rahilly were members of the Brotherhood.

  Three days later, Pearse addressed the four commandants.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, solemnly, ‘I have information for your ears only.’ They watched him closely. ‘A rising is planned for this September.’

  He outlined the general strategy and the areas to be controlled.

  ‘Each battalion will be responsible for blocking the roads connecting the military barracks with the city centre. They must be neutralized at all costs.’

  The four young commandants had no illusions as to the size of their task. The Dublin Barracks were gigantic.

  ‘Build up your strength with men from your own area. Choose your HQ, keeping in mind that you will need access to food and supplies. You will receive notification of the rising on grey notepaper. The messenger will say, ‘Howth’. Pick your own code-word so that HQ knows the message has been received and understood.’

  De Valera immediately chose ‘Bruree’, the name of the place where he was bred.

  McDermott reported Pearse’s briefing to Tom Clar
ke at his shop in Britain Street.

  Clarke said, ‘I’ll put Uncle in the picture right away, though I’ll stress the final date may depend on the Germans.’

  Clarke also thought it a good idea to send someone to Berlin to update Casement on events back home and find out how the Irish Brigade was shaping up.

  ‘Plunkett’s your man,’ McDermott said. ‘He has permission to travel to Switzerland to try and cure his consumption.’

  A few miles west of Clarke’s shop, in the Viceroy’s Lodge in the lush setting of the Phoenix Park, Wimborne had begun entertaining on a lavish scale.

  Lady Wimborne, already nicknamed ‘Queen Alice’, was a dimpled delight. Next to her bed, quite safe from her husband’s prying eyes, was a large framed picture of her Spanish lover.

  As to Wimborne himself, known to the ladies as ‘His Ex’, he was, after thirteen boring years of marriage, a fairly frank brandy-swilling bounder. He was stagy, with a tendency to express himself with wide gestures of his arms. He flapped his eyelids at attractive women and sometimes borrowed their earrings to adorn his own tyre-sized ears.

  His secretary was Lord Basil Blackwood. Three years older than the Viceroy, he had a reputation, not altogether justified, for being a womanizer in his own right. One guest was even heard to say, ‘If Basil ever gets to heaven, they had better lock up the Virgin Mary.’

  From Wimborne’s point of view, Blackwood had a less amiable side. His Ex needed him to take down his letters and refill his glass, yet he kept asking to join the Grenadier Guards in France.

  ‘God,’ Wimborne moaned to the ladies, ‘dear Basil has no will to live.’

  Against the background of a city plotting rebellion, the Viceroy passed his days and his nights in Castle balls and private revels. And Nathan hoped it would long continue so; it kept his Lordship out of Irish affairs which he lacked the diplomatic skills to cope with.

  In Berlin, Casement, with typical generosity, decided to send Adler to New York. He wrote to the Clan asking for their help.