CHAPTER THIRTEEN - PART F
February 24, 1937
Abbeyville Manor
Kinsealy, Ireland
It was a beautiful winter night, the stars sparkled coldly in the blue-black sky, and the moon beamed near full, bathing the grounds of the large manor house in soft muted light. The manor house itself was a glow with light that spilled out onto the grounds. Gaily clad figures could be seen in the house’s grand ball room dancing traditional Irish dances while Irish jigs and reels could be heard drifting through the night air. Even though Ireland was “officially” a “Peoples’ Republic” and all citizens were comrades and equal, reality showed that there was equality for the masses and then “more equality” for the ruling elite. As such, this manor house, formerly the British Empire’s Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland’s, rather than being turned over to “the people” for use as a collective, was retained by the government for use by the People’s President for governmental meetings, and the Irish being Irish, for revelry. This evening was such a night.
Abbeyville was, although not as large as some estates, a large parcel of land, filled with wooded glens, gardens, and numerous outbuildings that served the needs of those who tended to the estate. One of the other qualities that led it to be retained by the new People’s Free Irish Republic was it’s relative seclusion, the manor house itself situated a half mile off the main road and five miles from the closest dwelling. At 9:30 p.m. a large truck was traveling down the main road with smoke rising from under the engine compartment. Two black clothed figures jumped out of the slowly rolling vehicle and dashed to the hedges surrounding the entry way to Abbeyville while the truck came to a stop blocking the drive lane. Once the vehicle was stationary, one of the figures aimed a light near the manor house and flashed three times in rapid succession. This signal was relayed from a halfway point down the lane to a group of trees near the manor’s rear garden.
Inside the manor’s main ball room, the People’s President, Eamon de Valera, was having a small discussion interrupted by an aide with news of an important phone call from London. Announcing that he would take the call in his private study, de Valera turned and quickly headed toward the other end of the building. The worries of ruling Ireland, which had been briefly shed while he was in the ball room, came flying back. The call from London could only be connected with his latest concern, namely, how to convince the British Empire, or more specifically it’s King, to release the Northern Ireland counties to The People’s Irish Free Republic. Such an act would show the world, and in particular Communist Russia and France, that Ireland was able to stand up for itself against the oppressiveness of the Empire, and with many of Ireland’s sources of assistance from within the Empire drying up following the announcement of the creation of The People’s Republic, such a move would thereby secure for Ireland many needed new sources of assistance, specifically the Communist nations of the world. He silently prayed to God, who he officially disavowed as a Communist but fervently believed in as an Irishman, that this call was the one that would set his name down in the history books.
As he opened the door to the library and stepped in, de Valera’s thoughts on those worries came to an abrupt and brutal stop as the aroma of burning pipe tobacco drifted toward him from the darkened room. Catching himself as he instinctively reached to turn on the light, de Valera scanned the room and came to rest upon the outline of a figure seated in a chair near the room’s unlit fireplace. A faint glow come from the bowl of the figure’s pipe with aromatic smoke wafting from within the bowl. The moonlight coming in from the window glinted faintly off a metal object in the figure’s lap, an object de Valera could and would safely assume to be some sort of firearm. Where a mere second before his thoughts drifted through possibilities of finally getting the English out of Eire, now concerns about personal safety sprang to the fore.
“Feel free to turn the lights on, my good man,” the figure said easily, almost arrogantly.
“Come have a seat, Mr. de Valera… and close the door behind you, eh?”
Taking a step back, the Irish leader heard two faint metallic clicks and suddenly saw black clothed figures on either side of him, black coated faces staring coldly, their silence unnerving, while they stared down the barrels of the Thompson sub-machine guns pointed at his person.
Thompson submachine gun - S.O.E.'s weapon of choice
“Please, Mr. de Valera,” the seated man said in a kind and slightly aristocratic voice,
“I insist.”
Realizing that there was nothing he could do if the men decided to end his life, de Valera closed the door and then flicking the light switch. A youngish looking man in a black tweed suit, which looked to be the sort worn by the Empire’s landed gentry when they went hunting, a large black pipe shaped like a dragon jutting from his mouth, his hands calmly folded in his lap and his booted feet resting nonchalantly upon the room’s massive oak desk. The only thing ruining the man’s appearance of a noble hunter was the substitution of a hunter’s shotgun with a large and mean looking Thompson sub-machine gun resting almost negligently in the man’s lap.
Slowly walked toward his desk, all previous thoughts whisked away by the resting but brooding weapons that had their business ends aimed in his general direction, he hid a scowl and not expecting an answer, growled,
“Who are you?”
With a slight smile that gave his eyes a mischievous twinkle, the man replied,
“I have been authorized to say that, officially I am no one special, just a member of the citizenry come to call. Unofficially, I am Captain Malcolm Drake of the Duke of Cornwall’s Light Infantry. These to lads with me are friends of mine, and unofficially we have been sent to deliver a message to you from His Majesty, King George VI.”
Sitting down behind his desk de Valera reached for the hidden pistol that he normally had suspended from under the desk top while his mind reeled from the announcement.
“This is a bit of an odd way for a diplomat to announcement himself, don’t you think, Captain, breaking into my residence, weapons brandished, during an official gala?”
“Well, yes, if I were a diplomat. You can stop looking for your weapon, Mr. de Valera, we already retrieved it,” Drake replied with a nod toward the side table next to his chair where sat de Valera’s pistol. Nodding toward the larger of the two men standing by the door, he continued,
“You can also forgo ringing you call button for your guards, young Ian cut the wires.”
“As I was saying,” Drake continued as de Valera sat back with a thump and a scowl of irritation briefly crossing his features,
“I’m not here as a diplomat. Think of me as… herald-knight. His Majesty wanted it made perfectly clear that he has become very much displeased by your government’s demands as of late.”
“Those are completely justifiable demands, Northern Ireland belongs to the Irish people, not the British Monarchy,” de Valera retorted hotly.
“There’s no sense in arguing with me, Mr. de Valera,” Drake said with a reproachful grin while one hand gentle stroked the trigger guard of his Thompson,
“I’m not a diplomat and I was not sent to discuss or even argue the semantics of the situation, only to deliver a message.”
“Then your purpose, Captain,” the People’s President barked in irritation at the impudence of the British officer,
“is to intimidate me?”
“Well, sir,” the S.O.E. man said with mischievous grin peaking out around the pipe in his mouth,
“if that is what has occurred, then that is a job well done for myself, but no, that was not my purpose for being here this evening. Actually, the reason for my enjoying your company for this short while is to make it abundantly and perfectly clear to you that not only does the British Empire not recognize this People’s Irish Free Republic, nor you as it’s President, but also that if you and your supporters do not cease this charade and return to your own senses as British subjects, very grave consequences shall occur.”
“And what is that, the king sending in the British Army to force the Empire back upon the backs of the Irish,” de Valera snorted with disdain.
“Nay, Mr. de Valera,” Drake chuckled mirthlessly,
“nothing so heavy handed as that, I assure you, besides, His Majesty has no wish to alienate his Irish subjects. No, Mr. de Valera, these consequences would pertain directly to yourself and you closest fellows… and would prove to be quite dire and final, if I may be so blunt.”
The Irishman was about to incredulously ask if the man from Britain was joking, but the cold hard look that contrasted with the man’s chuckle delivered that question still-born, and de Valera felt something very cold grasp his heart. He was no one to be so easily frightened, having more than his fair share of scrapes to tell tales about, but something about this young Englishman’s remorselessly icy stare caused him to, for the first time in his life, to question himself.
“That is fine, we are quite willing to lay down our lives for the Cause and die a martyr’s death,” de Valera said boldly after a second’s hesitation.
“Please, don’t delude yourself, Mr. de Valera,” Drake replied indifferently. “
These consequences would in no way be able to be thought of as a martyr’s death, just some tragic meaningless accident.”
Slowly sinking back into his chair, de Valera started grasping for anything that would give him time to think this situation through. “
What exactly is it that your king wants of Ireland?”
“He is still your king as well, Mr. de Valera, despite your actions to date,” Drake replied as he puffed his pipe impassively.
“What His Majesty wants is simple. He wants Ireland to return to the fold of the Empire.”
“After all that we have achieved up to this point? Outrageous,” de Valera replied indignantly.
“I can see where it could come across that way,” Drake replied sympathetically while pulling a packet of papers from his jacket pocket. Tossing the packet onto de Valera’s desk he continued,
“Be that as it may, here is His Majesty’s suggestion for Ireland’s return to the fold, so to speak. I suggest you read over it, think about it hard, and then let Lord Stanly at the Dominion’s office know your response.”
“Do I have a deadline,” de Valera asked sarcastically while he opened the packet of papers.
“Well, not so much a deadline as a due date,” came the equally sarcastic reply amid a cloud of pipe smoke.
“When?”
“March 1,” Drake replied in all seriousness.
“And if I, I mean Ireland, doesn’t respond to Britain’s demand?”
“If you have stopped your antics about demanding Northern Ireland and you aren’t making any attempts to spread your communist filth into Britain or Scotland, then you’ll be left alone to rot, at least for the time being. If, on the other hand you haven’t…. well then, my lads and I will just have to come back to visit and have a spot of tea with you, Mr. de Valera.”
“So now the British Empire has sunk to the plane of leveling threats to individuals,” the Irishman replied while trying to fight off the cold dread feeling that was spreading through his body at the looks coming from the competent and deadly faces of the three men facing him.
“Oh, don’t be such a fuss pot, get your panties in a wad and try to take the moral high ground here,” Drake replied in mild outrage taking his pipe out of his mouth and pointing it toward the Irish leader for emphasis.
“You and your Cause have removed many individuals who didn’t see things your way, so if comes to it, it shall only be a fine time for you and your chaps to have some of your own medicine. Hear this, Mr. de Valera, our George is a good man who will do what it takes to keep the British Empire in the sun, and if that means some one the likes of you have to be removed, then that’s what if going to happen.”
“And when or who will your king stop at, young man? Will you allow him to remove anyone who does not agree with him?”
Smiling while slowly shaking his head in a declining motion Drake answered,
“I won’t get into a debate with you, Mr. de Valera, not only because I don’t have the time, but more because you have no moral or ethical foundation to support the question you just threw out. Suffice it to say, I trust His Majesty bloody well more than I just you or any other communist. Now, read the king’s offer and make your response known.”
Rising from his chair and striding with no concern toward the French doors to the left of de Valera’s desk that led out to the manor’s grounds, Drake looked over his shoulder and amid a cloud of aromatic smoke smiled saying,
“I truly hope that we won’t met again, Mr. de Valera, but that is your decision. You seem a descent fellow, for an Irish communist, and I’d hate to have to kill you.”
“You seem a decent fellow, for a British bullock, and I’d hate to die,” de Valera replied sarcastically, but with a grain of truth as he watched the British commandoes merge into the shadows and out of sight.
Next: the Monarchy's plan for Ireland... and the Empire
