“Damnation!” he shouted at the trembling royal servants. “This is not the end, I swear it is not — but it is the beginning! It will end only when those Americans are destroyed — destroyed to the last man! We were caught by surprise, that is all. This evil shall not prevail.”

A NEW IRELAND IS BORN

It was Sunday, the first Sunday since the brief battle for Ireland had ended with victory for the American troops. Church bells sounded throughout the land and in many churches prayers of thanks were given, and a warm welcome extended to the soldiers who came to attend services. Smiles and handshakes and, even better, in the public houses there was drink all around and no mention of payment expected from these brave men from across the sea.

In the south.

In the north of Ireland, in Belfast and in the cities that the Americans had marched through, the Catholics went to mass in silence, not even glancing at each other as they trod the rain-slick streets. Not until they were inside, and the church doors locked, did they dare speak, voices raised in questions that had no answers.

In Portstewart the Catholic church was next to the sand dunes, behind the beach where the Americans had landed. The priest had stood in the doorway while the long lines of gray clad soldiers had come up from the beach and passed his church. Some had waved to him as they went by. Even others — to his amazement — had crossed themselves as they passed his church. Grinning from ear to ear, he had made the sign of the cross, blessing them over and over. Now it was time to speak about this to his parishioners. The talk died away as he stood in the pulpit.

“We must be silent — and we must be hopeful. Those are the first two things that we must do. Silent because we do not know Ireland’s fate. We have seen the American army move south to Belfast. We can hope them all success there, and in the rest of Ireland. Have they invaded the south as well? We do not know. We can only hope — and we can pray. Pray that these men from across the sea have come here to unite Ireland in a freedom never experienced before. We can pray, pray earnestly for the success of their cause. But we must pray in silence until we know Ireland’s fate. Bow our heads and pray in the hope that they bring to these beleaguered shores.”

In Belfast there was a coldness in the Protestant congregations that matched the chill wind and driving rain under the lowering October sky. General Robert E. Lee and his officers rode from the Townhall Building, where he had his headquarters, to May Street Presbyterian Church where the gentry attended Sunday service. A troop of cavalry trotted by and Lee returned their salute: he noticed the sentries posted outside the government buildings. Martial law was still in effect.

There was a rustle of movement and suppressed whispers when the American officers passed between the high pillars and entered the church. The Reverend Ian Craig was just entering the pulpit and, although a most loquacious man at all other times, he could at this moment think of nothing to say. The military men marched calmly to the front row, which quickly emptied of the few souls there, and seated themselves. The officers sat upright, their hats on their laps, and looked expectantly at Reverend Craig. The silence lengthened until he cleared his voice and spoke.

His sermon was about redemption and brotherly love and was — for him — unexpectedly short. Nor did he stand at the doorway as his parishioners left, as was his wont, but instead hurried into his vestry.

“How do, ma’am,” General Lee said tipping his hat to a black-garbed and elderly woman passing in the aisle. She gasped, looked horrified, and hurried on. As did all the others.

“It ’pears like they think we got something catching,” James Longstreet observed.

“Maybe we do,” Lee said, and smiled enigmatically.

When he reached his headquarters the officer of the day had a message for him.

“Delegation of the locals here to see you, General.”

“How many of them?”

“The Mayor, a Mr. John Lytle, and ten members of the Belfast City Council.”

“Too many. Tell them that I’ll see the mayor and one more of them, that’s enough. And before you let them in send for Surgeon Reynolds.”

He went through the accumulated reports on his desk until Reynolds came in.

“Sit down, Francis, and look military. The locals have finally decided that they want to talk to us.”

“Well that is surely nice to hear. I wonder what they will have to say for themselves.”

“Complaints, first off, I imagine.” Lee was right.

“Mayor Lytle, Councilor Mullan,” the sergeant said as he ushered them in.

Lytle, a plump man in a dark frock coat looked decidedly angry. “I protest, sir, at the exclusion of the councilors…”

“Please be seated, gentleman,” Lee interrupted. “I am General Lee, military commandant of this city. This is Surgeon Reynolds, on my staff. This city is under martial law and it is I who decide the size of all meetings both public and private. I am sure that you will understand that. Now — how may I be of service?”

Lytle sat down heavily in his chair and fingered his gold watchfob before he spoke. “You say martial law, sir? And why is that — and how long will it continue?”

“I have declared martial law because this country is in a state of war between two opposing military groups. Once all military opposition has been eliminated and peace restored, martial law will be lifted.”

“I protest. You have fired on this country’s armed forces—”

“That I have not done, sir.” Lee’s words were sharp, his voice cold. “This country is Ireland and I have engaged only British troops.”

“But we are British. We protest your presence here, your invasion…”

“If I might speak,” Reynolds said quietly. “I would like to point out some inescapable truths.”

“You’re not American,” Mullen said accusingly, hearing Reynolds’s Irish accent.

“Ahh, but I am, Mr. Mullen. Born in Derry and educated here in Belfast, but just as American as the general here. Ours is a nation of immigrants — as is yours.”

“Never!”

“I would like you to remember that you are a nationalist and a Protestant, whose ancestors immigrated here from Scotland some many hundreds of years ago. If you wish to return to that land, General Lee informs me that you are free to do so. If you remain here you will be fairly treated as will be all Irishman.”

“You’re a Teague,” Lytle snarled.

“No, sir,” Reynolds said coldly. “I am an Irish Catholic who is now an American citizen. In our country there is complete separation of Church and State. There is no official state religion…”

“But you will side with the Catholics against the Protestants, that’s what you will do…”

“Mr. Lytle.” Lee’s words cracked like a whip, silencing the man. “If you came here for a religious argument you may leave now. If you came as an elected official of this city, then address yourself to your reasons for your presence.”

Lytle was breathing hard, unable to speak. It was Councilor Mullan who broke the silence.

“General, the Protestants in the north are a much maligned people who are now united in peace with one another. We are a hard-working people who have built Belfast, in very few years, into a successful and growing city. We weave linen and build ships. But if we unite with the backward south — there will be changes I am sure. The past has been a turbulent one, but that I feel is over. Now what will happen to us?”

“You, and every other resident of this island, will be treated equally. I sincerely hope that you all follow the example of the people of Canada, where national elections have been held and a government has been democratically elected. The same we hope will be true of Mexico in the near future, now that the invading army has been expelled.”