the North. I was leading a platoon of men and women near the Doon Forest, and we were ambushed by a whole regiment of British paratroopers backed by the murderous Royal Ulster Constabulary.” Hickey went on.
Langley watched him from the corner, then looked around at the news people. They seemed unhappy, but he suspected that John Hickey was doing better with the public than with the media. Hickey had a hard-driving narrative style … a simplicity and almost crudeness—sweating, smoking, and scratching—not seen on television in a long time.
John Hickey—sitting now in fifty million American living rooms—was becoming a folk hero. Langley would not have been surprised if someone told him that outside on Madison Avenue vendors were hawking John Hickey T- shirts.
CHAPTER 44
Brian Flynn stood near the altar and watched the television that had been placed on the altar.
Maureen, Father Murphy, and Baxter sat in the clergy pews, watching and listening silently. The Cardinal sat nearly immobile, staring down at the television from his throne, his fingertips pressed together.
Flynn stood in silence for a long while, then spoke to no one in particular. “Long-winded old man, isn’t he?”
Maureen looked at him, then asked, “Why didn’t you go yourself, Brian?”
Flynn stared at her but said nothing.
She leaned toward Father Murphy and said, “Actually, Hickey seems an effective speaker.” She paused thoughtfully. “I wish there were a way to get this kind of public platform without doing what they’ve done.”
Murphy added as he watched the screen, “He’s at least venting the frustrations of so many Irishmen, isn’t he?”
Baxter glanced at them sharply. “He’s not venting anyone’s frustrations—he’s inflaming some long-cooled passions. And I think he’s embellishing and distorting it a bit, don’t you?” No one answered, and he went on. “For instance—if he’d been ambushed by a regiment of British paras, he wouldn’t be here to talk about it—”
Maureen said, “That’s not the point—”
Flynn overheard the exchange and looked at Baxter. “Harry, your chauvinism is showing. Hail Britannia! Britannia rules the Irish. Ireland—first outpost of Empire and destined to be the last.”
Baxter said to Flynn, “The man’s a bloody demagogue and charlatan.”
Flynn laughed. “No, he’s
Baxter looked at the people around him—Maureen, Murphy, Flynn, the Fenians … even the Cardinal. For the first time he understood how little he understood.
Megan Fitzgerald walked up to the sanctuary and stared at the television screen.
Hickey, in the tradition of the ancient seanachies, interrupted his narrative to break into song:“Then, here’s to the brave men of Ireland.At home or in exile away;And, here’s to the hopes of our sire land,That never will rust or decay.To every brave down-trodden nation,Here’s liberty, glorious and bright. But,Oh! Let our country’s salvation,Be toasted the warmest, to-niiight!”
Megan said, “Bloody old fool. He’s making a laughing-stock of us ranting like that.” She turned to Flynn. “Why the hell did you send him?”
Flynn looked at her and said softly, “Let the old man have his day, Megan. He deserves this after nearly seventy years of war. He may be the world’s oldest continuously fighting soldier.” He smiled in a conciliatory manner. “He’s got a lot to tell.”
Megan’s voice was impatient. “He’s supposed to tell them that the British are the only obstacle to a negotiated settlement here. I’ve a brother rotting in Long Kesh, and I want him free in Dublin come morning.”
Maureen looked up at her. “And I thought you were here only because of Brian.”
Megan wheeled around. “Shut your damned mouth!”
Maureen stood, but Father Murphy pulled her quickly into the pew.
Flynn said nothing, and Megan turned and strode off.
Hickey’s voice blared from the television. The Cardinal sat motionless staring at some point in space. Baxter looked away from everyone and tried to filter out Hickey’s voice, concentrating on the escape plan. Father Murphy and Maureen watched the screen intently. Flynn watched also, but his thoughts, like Baxter’s, were elsewhere.
John Hickey took out a flask and poured a dark liquid into his water glass, then looked up at the camera. “Excuse me. Heart medicine.” He drained off the glass and let out a sigh. “That’s better. Now, where was I? Right —1973—” He waved his arms. “Oh, enough of this. Listen to me, all of you! We don’t want to hurt anyone in this Cathedral. We don’t want to harm a Prince of the Roman Church—a holy man—a good man—or his priest, Father Murphy … a lovely man….” He leaned forward and clasped his hands together. “We don’t want to harm one single altar or statue in this beautiful house of God that New Yorkers—Americans—love so dearly. We’re not barbarians or pagans, you know.”
He held his hands out in an imploring gesture. “Now listen to me….” His voice became choked, and tears formed in his eyes. “All we want is another chance for the young lives being wasted in British concentration camps. We’re not asking for the impossible—we’re not making any irresponsible demands. No, we’re only asking— begging—begging in the name of God and humanity for the release of Ireland’s sons and daughters from the darkness and degradation of these unspeakable dungeons.”
He took a drink of water and stared into the camera. “And who is it who have hardened their hearts against us?” He thumped the table. “Who is it who’ll not let our people go?”
Burke leaned against the wall in the Monsignor’s office and watched the screen. Schroeder sat at his desk, and Spiegel had returned to her rocker. Bellini paced in front of the screen, blocking everyone’s view, but no one objected.
Burke moved to the twin doors, opened them, and looked into the outer office. The State Department security man, Arnold Sheridan, stood by the window in deep thought. Occasionally he would eye the British and Irish representatives. Burke had the impression that Sheridan was going to give them the unpleasant news from Washington that Hickey was scoring heavily and it was time to talk. An awkward, almost embarrassed silence lay over the office as Hickey’s monologue rolled on. Burke was reminded of a living room he had sat in once where the adolescents and adults had somehow gotten themselves involved in watching an explicit documentary on teenage sex. Burke turned back to the inner office and stared at the screen.
Hickey’s voice was choked with emotion. “Many of you may question the propriety of our occupation of a house of God, and it was, I assure you, the hardest decision any of us has ever made in our lives. But we didn’t so much
He paused as though wrestling with a decision, then said softly, “This afternoon, many Americans for the first time saw the obscene face of religious bigotry as practiced by the Orangemen of Ulster. Right here in the streets of the most ecumenical city in the world, the ugliness of religious intolerance and persecution was made unmistakably clear. The songs you heard those bigots sing were the songs the little children are taught in homes, schools, and churches….” He straightened his posture; on his face was a distasteful look that melted into an old man’s sadness. He shook his head slowly.
Schroeder turned away from the screen and said to Burke, “What’s the latest with those Orangemen?”
Burke kept staring at the screen as he spoke. “They still say they’re Protestant loyalists from Ulster, and they’ll probably keep saying that until at least dawn. But according to our interrogators they all sound like Boston Irish. Probably IRA Provos recruited for the occasion.” Given all the externals of this affair, Burke thought, psychological timing, media coverage, tactical preparations, political maneuverings, and last-ditch intelligence gathering—it was clear that Flynn would not extend the deadline and risk the tide turning against him.
