.jpg)
This is an article I wrote in February 1977 while I
was Cage Eleven in Long Kesh. Here it is again for the season that’s in it. It’s
also contained in Cage Eleven, published by Brandon Books.
How it started - Long Kesh 1971
The Twelfth
We were seated in our usual spot beside the shower
hut. Cedric had successfully killed another conversation: all afternoon he had
been spewing forth useless pieces of information, contradicting and taking
issue with everything anyone said. When he gets contrary like that we usually
keep quiet and wait for him to go away. He refused to leave, so we sat together
in silence.
Outside on the Blaris Cemetery Road an Orangeman
was beating his brains out on a Lambeg drum. Egbert was moved to break up our
dummies’ meeting.
“Did youse ever hear Seamus Heaney’s poem about
Orange drums?”
Faced with the eloquence of our silence he cleared
his throat.
“Listen to this.”
“The Lambeg balloons at his belly, weighs
Him back on his haunches, lodging thunder
Grossly there between his chin and his knees.
He is raised up by what he buckles under.
Each arm extended by a seasoned rod,
He parades behind it. And though the drummers
Are granted passage through the nodding crowd,
It is the drums preside, like giant tumours.
To every cocked ear, expert in its greed,
His battered signature subscribes ‘No Pope’.
The goatskin’s sometimes plastered with his blood.
The air is pounding like a stethoscope.”
“How does that grab youse, eh?” Egbert smiled
around at us, “it’s very good, isn’t it?”
Cedric sneered contemptuously at us all, at Heaney,
at the sound of the Lambeg which continued to beat its way into Long Kesh and,
of course, at Egbert. “They use pigskin, not goatskin,” he retorted. “There’s
an oul’ lad in Sandy Row makes them.”
“I used to watch them at it all the time. One
Eleventh night I walked the whole length of the Shankill.” He paused at our
amused and doubting grins. “Nawh … Like, it was before the troubles. About
1965. It was safe as a row of houses then.”
“That’s what has me in here.” It was Egbert’s turn
to sneer. “That’s what he told me when he sent me out. ‘An easy job’ he told
me. ‘You’ll be safe as a row of houses,’ he said. It’s a pity he didn’t tell
the judge.”
We laughed as Cedric, finally needled into silence,
glared across at Egbert. Outside the Lambeg continued its primitive tattoo.
“I hear the loyalist cages are having a Twelfth
parade,” I volunteered, anxious lest Egbert and Cedric stop talking altogether.
“They’ve got wood an’ all gathered in their cage for the Eleventh night. It
should be a good craic.”
“Aye” said Egbert, “it’ll be quare craic all right!
I remember when we used to live down the Grosvenor Road all my mates were
Orangies. I used to go round with them collecting wood and stuff for the
Twelfth bonfires.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” restored Cedric. “Your
ones probably took the soup as well.”
“Yahoo” Your man laughed, “that’s a bit near the
bone.”
“Wha’ d’ye mean?” I asked, hunkering up against the
side of the shower hut and edging out of the sun and into the shade. “Wha’ d’ye
mean, his ones took the soup.”
“They sold their Os for penny rolls and their Macs
for bits of hairy bacon,” Cedric recited.
“He’s trying to say that we Anglicised our names
for a bowl of soup and a crust. It’s his idea of a joke,” said Egbert.
“Ah, don’t mind him,” Your Man consoled. “He thinks
he’s descended from the ancient Kings of Ireland.”
“So I am. From the King Of Ulster.”
“With a name like Cedric?” Egbert challenged.
The rest of us smiled. Outside the camp on the
Cemetery Road the Lambeg continued its hollow staccato.
“What we need is a thirty two county Ulster,” Your
Man suggested. Cedric was nonplussed.
“Do youse know what was the most important
consequence of the Battle of the Boyne?” he asked.
“No conferring and you have twenty seconds to
answer.” Mimicked Egbert. “Right Magnus?”
Cedric glared at him. “OK, Brains Trust,” he said
scornfully.
“The thing with the Battle of the Boyne was that
the old Gaelic system was finally forced onto its knees, and the Protestant
Ascendancy was established by depriving and exploiting everyone else,” he
continued. “Youse probably think that the Boyne and the Twelfth is about
religion. It’s not: it’s about power.”
“It’s really the First, you know,” Egbert
interrupted, “the Twelfth took place on the First. I mean the Battle of the
Boyne took place on the First of July, not the Twelfth.”
“Well the Orangemen like it on the Twelfth. It
suits their holidays better,” Your man grinned.
“They don’t even know what they’re celebrating,”
sneered Cedric. “D’youse know that the Pope supported King Billy?”
He looked round at us. Your man handed round a
snout tin. (A tobacco tin.) While we made roll-ups (cigarettes) the sound of
the dinner lorry unloading its cargo of goodies at the cage gate drowned out
the noise of the Lambeg drum.
“We’re on the tap for a bit of home cooking,” Big
Marshall and Cleaky shouted over to us as they trundled towards the gate to
collect the day’s rations. “Any of youse get a parcel today?”
“Nawh,” Your Man replied, squinting into the sun at
them and then back again to Cedric. “Them two’s always on the tap,” he
muttered.
Cedric was unaffected by the distraction. He took a
long drag on his cigarette as he continued his narrative.
“It was King Billy and the Pope against King James
and the King of France. The Pope paid part of Billy Boy’s expenses and when
news of his victory at the Boyne reached Rome a Te Deum was sung at the
Vatican, and there were celebrations in the other main Catholic cities, too.”
Long Kesh - H-Blocks in foreground and internee and sentenced Cages behind. Thousands went through the Cages and Blocks.
Cedric looked around at us again. “Look lads, if
youse don’t believe me read any half-decent history book.”
“He’s right,” Egbert to our surprise agreed. “He’s
right on the button for once. That’s what happened.”
Cedric looked at him suspiciously. “Aye but do you
know why it happened?”
Before anyone could answer he went on. “Pope
Innocent …”
“Anything to Paddy innocent in the half-hut?”
Egbert chuckled.
“Pope Innocent,” Cedric repeated with only a slight
edge to his voice, “Pope Innocent supported the Dutchman, William, against
James after the English Parliament sacked James and invited William to take on
the job. James teamed up with the King of France to try to get his throne back
and he and William fought for it in Ireland. The Pope and all the rest wanted
to curb the power of France.”
“All this history’s a bit boring,” Your Man yawned.
“It’s the way he tells it,” said Egbert.
“Do you think that eejit out there beating the hell
out of his drum knows all about the Pope and King Billy?”
“Nawh. Well to be honest, I don’t know. Like you
didn’t know it yourself, did you?”
Your Man nodded his ignorance. Outside the camp the
Lambeg continued its rat-a-tat, rat-a-tat-tat. Your Man whistled in time to the
beat. “But I’m not an Orangeman, am I?” he said eventually.
“That’s no excuse for not knowing your own
history,” Cedric declared in his most professorial tone of voice. “It’s no
wonder the country’s the way it is.”
“Awk take a grip of yourself, will ye.” Egbert
spluttered.
“It’s all right.” Your Man said, “I’m well used to
his slabbering.”
“Hold on, hold on,” I chided, “take it easy. It’s
too good a day for arguing.”
“I agree,” said Cedric loftily. “Youse uns should
have a wee bit more come and go in youse.”
“My arse”, grunted Egbert.
“Ach, c’mon, let it go.” Your Man soothed.
“I was going to say,” said Cedric, “I was going to
say that after the Boyne – the grand alliance between King Billy and the Pope –
all religions were banned except the Episcopalian Church.”
“You’re joking, you’re having us on,” Egbert
exclaimed in disbelief.
“And what’s more,” Cedric persisted, “religious
tolerance, among other things, was dropped when the English broke the Treaty of
Limerick. Youse uns are good examples of that type of intolerance.” He pulled
himself to his feet. “Youse can have it,” he huffed.
“Ach, come on,” Your Man and I pleaded. “Sit down,
don’t be taking the Nick. Sit down and enjoy the sun.”
“Aye, sit down comrade,” Egbert said grudgingly.
Cedric hesitated but then sat down again, slowly and peevishly.
“No surrender,” hissed Egbert. “Not an inch,” he
whispered in disgust. “You’re as staunch as a bucket of snow.”
“Cedric carry on, carry on with ur story,” Your Man
said quickly and magnanimously.
Cedric started again. Egbert sighed. I settled
myself once more in the shade of the shower hut. Your Man stretched himself on
the tarmac. Outside the camp on the Blaris Cemetery Road the Lambeg continued
its musical monotone, and Cedric went on, and the beating of the drum went on,
and the sound of Cedric’s voice and the beating of the drum went on. And on.
And on. And on.
Comments