It’s well known that Ireland is not a vast country, yet its capability to astonish with its closeness is everlasting. Take, for instance, my recent experience where I reported on the late funeral of Harry Gleeson, falsely executed in 1941, and his remains finally sent back to his hometown in Tipperary just the previous month.
A rather morbid surprise awaited me at the Galway Races pub during the same week, where I found myself sharing space with a woman who was part of the team that unearthed Gleeson’s burial site. Her archaeology and forensics firm had been given the austere yet necessary task of excavating a spot close to Mountjoy Prison’s northern wall, believed to be the final resting place of Gleeson and several other executed convicts.
They were challenged by incomplete record maintenance, particularly in the years following independence. The recording of grave sites was thorough under British governance; however, this declined in the Free State. Yet, the Irish tradition of oral history served as a valuable resource in this instance as well. A seasoned prison staff member, whose ancestors too were part of the prison service, was able to provide vital details, quite literally giving meaning to the phrase that he ‘knew where the bodies were buried’.
The resounding tunes of Gleeson’s own fiddle, featuring jolly numbers like the hornpipe ‘Harvest Home’, added a touch of celebration to the otherwise sombre funeral. Interestingly, one inadvertent outcome of the mission to locate Gleeson’s body was the unearthing of several other neglected remains, the majority of which will probably be relegated to a common grave. It appears doubtful, for instance, that recognition or a commemorative funeral would be fitting for William Mitchell. This member of the Black and Tans faced execution in Mountjoy in 1921, and it remains to be seen if anyone retains a memory of him.
To my surprise, I learnt about the execution of a Black and Tan during the War of Independence. This happened in February 1921 when two constables, one named Arthur Hardie, were implicated in the murder of a Wicklow magistrate and cattle merchant, known as Robert Dixon. The murder occurred during a thwarted burglary.
Hardie, presumed to be the actual assassin, took his own life before justice could be served. As a result, the presumed partner in crime was subjected to the gallows just a few months later, despite the existence of conflicting evidence.
Mitchell, being the sole crown officer to face the gallows for murder during the Troubles, was the focus of a book titled Running with Crows by DJ Kelly, which was published a few years back.
His remains were also part of the eerie collection assembled at Mountjoy in the recent past.
If his remains were to be returned, it appears that they wouldn’t have to travel a great distance. Mitchell was Irish, just like approximately 20 per cent of the Black and Tans, and was born in the infamous Dublin district of “Monto”, once considered the largest red-light district in Europe.
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Monto strikes a chord as it indirectly played a role in the career of the American actor Carroll O’Connor (1924-2001). He is best remembered for his character Archie Bunker in the 1970s sitcom, a cantankerous middle-aged man who often griped about ethnic minorities (including the Irish), feminists, Communists, Catholics, and Jews.
His breakthrough role was Buck Mulligan in Ulysses in Nighttown, a stage adaptation of Joyce’s novel. At that time, he was without an agent and decided to directly approach director Burgess Meredith for an audition, insisting he was ideal for the role.
Eventually, Meredith relented and the production unexpectedly became a Broadway success in 1958, running for several months until the theatre was taken down. The name of the play capitalised on the infamy of an episode from Ulysses that took place in Monto, rechristened “Nighttown” by Joyce.
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On a recent day trip to Galway, a friend and I caught a performance of Endgame, Samuel Beckett’s dark comedy on the human predicament, by the Druid theatre company.
It was mentioned that the staging of the play was influenced by chess. The character Hamm, encumbered by limited movement and confined to his chair, typifies the king, while his beleaguered assistant, Clov, who is constantly on the move for him, personifies a knight. However, the theatrical depiction of human chess wasn’t the sole event we observed on Saturday, owing to the round-trip train ride and darkly humorous experiences synonymous with being an Iarnród Éireann commuter.
The ensuing drama was triggered off by a temporary glitch in the seating reservation system which was fixed as we began the journey, but not before a majority of passengers found themselves in incorrect seats due to the packed train. This gave rise to a fascinating study of human behavioural patterns. Some passengers, in spite of having a confirmed reservation, were too courteous to assert their claim and chose to stand instead, while others insisted on their rights and were met with defiance from those unlawfully occupying the seats.
Two passengers, noticeable by their prominent Mediterranean accents, boldly announced that all seat reservations had been cancelled, until confronted by us and several other passengers. These signalled the opening moves.
The following round of actions was a flurry of confusion and exchanges: b34 x b39; b39 x b45 (threatening to announce a check); b45 x b37 (threatening to summon the conductor), and so on.
The entire scene could rival a theatrical play in its drama, but the thought of granting it a standing applause was put aside.