Number 51 Chambers Street was a new limestone skyscraper in the beaux arts style, paid for by interest earned on the savings of two generations of Irish emigrants. Above the vast banking hall where tellers behind bronze grilles counted thousands in and out every day, were several floors belonging to Holy Mother Church. With her special dispensation, Justice Cohalan occupied rooms on the tenth. ‘He’s a passionate fellow for a lawyer,’ Casement had said; ‘a fine man, knows everyone, and close to Devoy.’ Veteran republican, friend of Parnell, jailbird and journalist, gun runner, foreign legionnaire, implacable enemy of the British for more than half a century: ‘Devoy
Father Nicholson greeted them in the lobby. ‘It’s most of the executive of Clan na Gael,’ he said, hunting round anxiously for an ashtray. ‘I’ve given Sir Roger’s letter to Mr Devoy already.’ He filled the elevator with incense and sweat. There were a dozen of them round a boardroom table, heavy, middle aged or elderly, distinctly Irish in the self-conscious way of the American exile, all of them men but for a young woman in her early twenties who was there to take the minutes and was pretty enough to draw Wolff’s eye. From the head of the table, Justice Cohalan spoke a few cool words of welcome and indicated that they should take the empty chairs at the bottom. How was Sir Roger faring? he asked, broad shoulders wriggling uncomfortably; they had read his letter with concern. Concern was written deeply in his remarkably long face. He was a tough-looking man who might have made his living with a pick and a shovel. Wolff’s gaze wandered round the table as the priest spoke of Casement’s hopes for the brigade, of its spirit, of its new green uniform, of the need for more young Irishmen to fight alongside ‘our brothers’. Nicholson spoke with passion — more perhaps than he managed on a Sunday — and they listened with the respect they would offer any priest, but with no warmth. There was a long silence when he finished, only the scratching of the secretary’s pen.
‘He doesn’t seem himself, you know…’ Cohalan observed at last. ‘Disappointed, angry even, at least that’s what I read in his letters.’
Nicholson said he thought Casement was in good spirits. But short of money, Christensen chipped in. Sir Roger wasn’t able to stay at the best hotels and didn’t eat like a gentleman.
‘Like a gentleman, you say?’ John Devoy leant forward, turning his shaggy grey head to stare menacingly down the table at them.
‘He has expenses,’ Christensen ventured nervously. ‘The grand circles he must be in… some costs… clothes…’
Devoy snorted sceptically.
‘…clothes…’ Christensen repeated, nonplussed.
The priest came to his rescue. ‘He lives very modestly, Mr Devoy, but he must put our case to the German leaders, their Chancellor and high command.’
‘Father, we’ve sent him six and a half thousand dollars — he’s no reason to complain,’ replied Devoy, softly spoken, distinctly Irish, too old to mince his words.
Cohalan patted his arm. ‘He’s out there dealing with these fellas on his own, John, it’s a tricky business; they’ve larger fish to fry than us… You’ve been very quiet, Mr de Witt. What do you say? You’re here to speak on Roger’s behalf, aren’t you?’
‘Before he does, I’d like to know who he is,’ Devoy remarked, and there was a murmur of assent round the table.
Wolff reached lazily into his jacket pocket for his cigarette case, took one out and rolled it lightly between his fingers. ‘I’m a private man, Mr Devoy. Roger Casement trusts me because he knows me.’
‘He says in his letter you fought the British in South Africa with MacBride.’
‘That’s right, Mr Cohalan…’ Snap. His lighter burst into flame; ‘…but that’s no sort of bona fide, I’m sure you’ll agree. I’m here to present Roger’s view, to answer the questions I can — my past is none of your business.’ He paused again to remove a strand of tobacco from his lip; ‘if you don’t respect Roger’s choice I have no business here—’
‘I don’t,’ interrupted Devoy.
‘Let’s hear him out,’ the judge said.
‘The Germans won’t help you if you don’t do anything for yourselves,’ Wolff continued. ‘That’s Roger’s opinion. He wants young Irishmen from here and someone, an Irishman, to command the brigade. Then they might believe you’ve got the guts to do more than sing about dying for old Ireland.’
‘You’re sneering at us,’ someone said. They were angry now, too angry to care who Sir Roger’s representative might be.
‘He’s wasting his time with the brigade,’ Devoy shook his head. ‘Vanity, that’s what it is…’
‘So you say,’ Wolff pressed on, ‘but what proof do the Germans have that there’s any cause in Ireland they can count on?’ There were more complaints. ‘Gentlemen, they want you to show some spirit.’
It was the judge who brought them to order. The battle was won: Mr de Witt was allowed to speak his mind because they were Irish rebels for whom it was a great virtue, and perhaps after years of sentimental talk they were inclined to believe what he said was true. But if de Witt’s role was to speak for his friend Roger, what of the spy Wolff? A patina of mistrust, a little more of Casement’s reputation lost, the suggestion of a man close to a breakdown; goodness, it was easy enough. The man’s letters, his soul-baring letters, and the facts that de Witt presented to them, were all that the spy, Wolff, needed because they spoke for themselves. It was Roger’s view that hundreds, thousands of Irish Americans might be recruited to the brigade, and Roger was sure they could cross the Atlantic in disguise, and Roger had been promised rifles and a ship to carry them all to Ireland. Mr de Witt declined to give his own view. He did speak with passion of his friend’s faithful heart, of his frustrations, the slights he bore without complaint and his much reduced circumstances. With too much passion, C might have said. He would have been wrong. Wolff could see it in their heavy Irish faces. They had no faith in the brigade — what was it Casement called his men? — no faith in his ‘Poor Brothers’ — and they were going to leave them, like it said in the song, hanging on the barbed wire. But if some passion helped Mr de Witt’s friend to have a little more money in exile, good meals, a comfortable bed, then Mr Wolff was content too.
‘We must send more, of course,’ declared Justice Cohalan. ‘You will carry it back, de Witt…’
Wolff shook his head. ‘I’m not returning to Berlin.’
‘Oh?’
‘This isn’t my cause, although I pray it succeeds in time and have faith that it will. I have a living to make here — Roger’s friend is to act as a courier,’ he said, half turning to Christensen.
‘Yes, perhaps,’ the judge replied without enthusiasm.
‘Our cause will succeed without
Wolff smiled sardonically. ‘I hope you’re right because I’m not a man who prays a great deal.’
They glared at each other for a few seconds but with difficulty. ‘I felt sure you weren’t that sort of man,’ Devoy chuckled mischievously. ‘Sorry, Father.’
With a smile on his face, the old man reminded Wolff of a grey Casement — the man he might become if he slipped the hangman’s noose. The priest blew out his cheeks and waved his hand, relieved to see a little sunshine.
After the smiles, they wanted Wolff to go. There were handshakes, thanks, a promise that the Clan would be in touch — the Algonquin, wasn’t it? Was there anything they could do for him? Perhaps, he said; he was a businessman.
‘Be gentle with Roger. Your country has no more devoted servant,’ he told them. It was meant as a parting shot and he was turning to the door when the young woman spoke to him.
‘Mr de Witt, will you find time to visit Sir Roger’s sister while you’re here?’
He’d presumed she was just the girl who took the minutes: early twenties, not married — he always looked for a ring — educated East Coast voice, fine features, intelligent face.
‘Yes, perhaps tomorrow,’ he said.
‘I know Mrs Newman is very anxious for news of her brother.’
They made eye contact and she offered an embarrassed smile then looked down, turning her notes deliberately.
