by Amy Harmon
“This is a betrayal,” a voice cried out from the gallery, and all heads swiveled to the slight female in the front row who stood, hands clenched and mouth quivering, before the assembly. She was a suffering specter of Ireland’s not-so-distant past.
“Mary MacSwiney,” I whispered, close to tears. Terence MacSwiney, Mary’s brother, was the Cork mayor who had gone on a hunger strike and died in a British prison. Mary’s words would smash all hope of a united front.
“My brother died for Ireland. He starved himself to death to call attention to the oppression of his countrymen. There can be no union between those who have sold their souls for the fleshpots of the Empire and those of us who won’t rest until Ireland is a republic.”
Collins tried again amid the calls of support and cries for revolt. “Please don’t do this,” he begged.
De Valera interrupted him, raising his voice like a southern preacher. “My last words as your president are these. We have had a glorious run. I call on all of you who support Mary in her sentiments to meet with me tomorrow to discuss how we will go forward. We cannot turn away from the fight now. The world is watching.” His voice broke, and he could not continue. The room dissolved into weeping. Men. Women. Former friends and new foes. And war returned to Ireland.
I awoke to voices and shadows and lay listening, drowsy and drifting, alone in Thomas’s Dublin bed. We’d left the Mansion House in the swell of reveling crowds; the mood in the chamber was not reflected on the streets, and the people were ebullient, rejoicing in the birth of the Free State. A few of Mick’s men had embraced Thomas as we exited the chamber, visibly relieved that the vote had gone in favor of the Treaty, but the tension in their faces and the strain in their smiles indicated an acute awareness of the trouble to come.
We hadn’t seen Michael after the session adjourned. He was swallowed up in another round of meetings, this time to cobble together a plan to proceed without half the Dáil. But obviously, Michael had found Thomas. I recognized the burr of his brogue rising up through the vents even though I couldn’t hear what he was saying. Thomas, his voice soft and low when he spoke at all, was clearly soothing his friend. I waited to see if I would be summoned to look into my crystal ball but heard the front door close and a hush descend on the house once more. I slid out of bed, pulled my robe around my naked body, and padded down the stairs to the warm kitchen and my brooding husband. He would be brooding, I had no doubt.
He sat at the kitchen table, knees splayed, head bowed, coffee cradled in his hands. I poured myself a cup, doused it with milk and sugar until it was the color of caramel, and drank deeply before I parked myself on the table in front of him. He reached out and wrapped one of my long curls around his finger before letting his hand fall back in his lap.
“Was that Michael?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Is he okay?”
Thomas sighed. “He’s going to kill himself trying to give the people what they want while trying to appease the few who want the opposite.”
It was exactly what he would do. For the final months of his life, Michael Collins would be a man slowly being drawn and quartered. My stomach twisted, and my chest burned. I steeled myself against it. I would not think about that now. Not now.
“Have you slept at all, Thomas? Has he?” I asked.
“You wore me out last night, lass. I slept hard for a few hours,” he murmured, touching a finger to my lips, a touch meant to remind me of our kisses, but he pulled away again, as if he felt guilty about the peace and pleasure I had given him. “But I doubt Michael has slept,” he finished quietly. “I heard him rooting around in the kitchen at three a.m.”
“It’s almost dawn. Where is he going?”
“Mass. Confession. Communion. He goes to Mass more than any murderous traitor I know,” he whispered. “It comforts him. Clears his head. They mock him for that too. It’s an Irish trait. We refuse a man communion while berating him for his sins. Some say he’s too pious; others say he’s a hypocrite for even setting foot in a church.”
“And what do you say?” I asked.
“If men were perfect, we wouldn’t need to be saved.”
I smiled sadly, but he didn’t smile back.
I took the cup from his hands, set it aside, and climbed onto his lap, my hands splayed lightly on his shoulders. He didn’t wrap his hands around my hips and pull me into his body. He didn’t bury his face in my neck or lift his face for my kiss. His despondence filled the space between us and tightened the muscles of his thighs, which were bracketed between my knees. I began to unbutton his shirt. One button. Two. Three. I paused to press a kiss to the exposed skin at his throat. He smelled of coffee and the rosemary-scented soap Mrs. O’Toole made.
He smelled of me.
Heat coiled in my belly, crowding out my fear, and I rubbed my cheek against his, back and forth, nuzzling him, my hands continuing their work. He would need to shave again soon. His jaw had grown rough, and his eyes were bruised as he watched me remove his shirt. When I urged his arms over his head to pull his undershirt free, he wrapped one hand around my jaw, drawing my mouth within a breadth of his.
“Are you trying to save me, Anne?”
“Always.”
He shuddered, letting me kiss the corners of his mouth before I touched my tongue to the crease between his lips. His chest was warm and firm beneath my hands, and I felt the quickening of his heart, the parting of the darkness from the dawn, as he closed his eyes and opened his mouth against mine.
For a moment we communed in caresses, in kisses that deepened and drew us out of ourselves only to softly set us down again. We rose and fell into each other, mouths sated and slow, lips languorous and lush, tongues tangling only to unravel and reunite.
Then his hands were sliding up my calves beneath the blue robe cinched at my waist, gripping the length of my thighs and kneading the flesh of my bottom. His palms skimmed, frantic, over my ribs and across my breasts only to circle back, cupping and cradling, worshipful but insistent. He slid, taking me with him, abandoning the chair for the floor, forsaking misery for commiseration. His mouth made the journey of his hands, parting my robe and pushing it aside until I was naked beneath him, breathing love into his skin and life into his body and being saved in return.
17 January 1922
On 14 January, the Dáil met again, its numbers almost halved by the exit of de Valera and all those who refused to recognize the vote. Arthur Griffith had been voted president of the Dáil upon de Valera’s resignation, and Mick was appointed as the chairman of the new provisional government organized under the terms of the Treaty.
Anne and I had not remained in Dublin after the final debate and the vote that shattered the Dáil. We were anxious to escape Dublin, to return to Eoin and the peace of Dromahair, relative as it was. But we returned, Eoin in tow, to watch as Dublin Castle, the symbol of British dominion in Ireland, was handed over to the provisional government.
Mick was late for the official ceremony. He rolled up in an open-top government car, his old Volunteer uniform pressed, his boots gleaming. The people roared their approval, and Eoin waved madly from where he was perched on my shoulders, calling out, “Mick, Mick!” as though he and Michael were old friends. I was so moved that I couldn’t speak, and Anne cried openly beside me.
Mick later told me that Lord FitzAlan, the viceroy who had replaced Lord French, sniffed and said, “You are seven minutes late, Mr. Collins,” to which Mick responded, “We’ve been waiting seven hundred years, Governor. You can wait seven minutes.”
On Tuesday, we watched as the Civic Guard, Ireland’s newly formed police force, marched towards Dublin Castle in their dark uniforms and emblemed caps to assume their new duties. Mick says they are the first recruits, but there will be more. Half the country is out of work, and applications are pouring in.
Whatever the people have said about Mick or about the Treaty, watching the peaceful transfer of power was a moment I will never forget. In every home,
on the streets, and in the papers, Dubliners are marveling that this day has come. And the effects of the Treaty are not just evident in the city. Everywhere in Ireland, at all but three of the port garrisons, British troops are preparing to leave. The Auxiliaries and the Black and Tans are already gone.
T. S.
22
CONSOLATION
How could passion run so deep
Had I never thought
That the crime of being born
Blackens all our lot?
But where the crime’s committed
The crime can be forgot.
—W. B. Yeats
The hope and symbolism of a departing British military at the end of January was overshadowed and forgotten in the months that followed. Just like the Irish and the British had done during the lull of the Anglo-Irish truce, the two opposing Irish factions—pro-Treaty and anti-Treaty—began frantically shoring up their walls and marshalling support while trying to advance their positions to the public at large. The Irish Republican Army was split down the middle, half joining Michael Collins and the Free State supporters, half refusing to compromise and assembling under the banner of republicans, meaning those who wouldn’t settle for anything less than a republic.
De Valera had been actively campaigning for anti-Treaty support, pulling in huge crowds filled with citizens sorely disappointed with the Free State solution. So many had suffered terribly at the hands of the British and were unwilling to compromise with an unreliable adversary. The British were notorious in Ireland for breaking the Treaty of Limerick of 1691, and many who supported de Valera believed the British would break the Irish Free State (Agreement) Act as well.
Michael Collins began a campaign of his own, traveling from county to county, drawing thousands anxious to stave off conflict and more war. Thomas started traveling long distances to see him, to succor him, and to gauge the pulse of the public at large. In Leitrim and Sligo, like in every county in Ireland, sides were being taken and lines were being drawn. The tension in the streets once due to the Auxies and the Tans was redirected; hostility between neighbors and distrust between friends was the new strife. Eoin’s nightmares increased; Brigid’s nerves were stretched thin, divided by her loyalty to Thomas and her love for her sons. When Thomas traveled with Michael, I remained at Garvagh Glebe, afraid to leave them behind.
As February rolled into March and March into April, the crack in Ireland’s leadership became a chasm in the country from which chaos climbed. Hell nipped at her heels. Raids on banks and outposts were the order of the day as the guns and money needed to overthrow the new government became paramount. The newspapers were ransacked or overrun, and the propaganda machine began in earnest. Anti-Treaty brigades of the IRA—brigades that behaved more like conquering warlords—began invading entire towns. In Limerick, where command of the city meant control of the River Shannon bridges and dominance over the west and the south, both pro- and anti-Treaty forces were burrowed in. The anti-Treaty IRA commandeered barracks newly evacuated by British troops, set up their headquarters in hotels, and occupied government buildings. It would take force to dislodge them, and no one wanted to use force.
On April 13, Michael spoke to a thousand people in Sligo at a pro-Treaty rally only to be rushed off the stage as fighting broke out in the crowd and shots rang out from a window overlooking the square. He was shoved into the back of an armored car, Thomas on his heels, and whisked away to Garvagh Glebe while order was restored. He spent the night in Dromahair, two dozen Free State soldiers surrounding the house to protect him while he planned his next move. We sat at the dining room table, the remnants of dinner all around us. Brigid was in her room, and Eoin was playing marbles in the adjoining parlor with Fergus, who showed him no mercy but a good deal of patience.
“A British ship off the coast of Cork was seized by anti-Treaty forces. The ship was filled with arms. Thousands of guns are now in the hands of the men who want to destabilize the Free State. What in the hell was a ship full of arms doing off the coast of Cork? The British are behind this,” Michael said, rising to his feet to circle the table, his belly full, his nerves taut.
“The British?” Thomas asked, surprised. “Why?”
Thomas stopped in front of the window, peering out into the darkness, only to have Fergus call out, demanding he move.
“If I can’t pull this off, Thomas, if Ireland can’t pull this off, the British will say they have no choice but to return to restore order. The agreement will be void. And Ireland will slide right back into British hands. So they quietly pull our strings behind the scenes. I sent Churchill a cable, accusing him of collusion. It may not be him. Or Lloyd George. But there is collusion. I have no doubt.”
“What did Churchill say?” Thomas gasped.
“He denied it outright. And he asked if there is anyone in Ireland willing to fight for the Free State.”
Silence fell over the room. Michael returned to his chair and sat, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. Thomas gazed at me, his eyes tragic, his throat working.
“I fought the British, Tommy,” Michael said. “I killed and ambushed and outmaneuvered. I was the Minister of Mayhem. But I don’t have the bloody stomach for this. I don’t want to fight my own countrymen. I keep trying to make deals with the devil—and now the devil has too many faces. I’m capitulating there, making promises over here, trying to keep it all from falling apart, and it’s not working.”
“Fighting for the Free State means killing for the Free State,” Thomas said, his countenance grave. “There are good men on every side of this. And good women. Emotions are high. Tempers are hot. But underneath it all, no one wants to fire on their own. So we scramble and plot and dig in and argue, but we don’t want to kill each other.”
“It’s a helluva lot easier to kill when you hate the people you’re shooting at,” Michael admitted heavily. “But even Arthur Griffith, the man who is all about peaceful resistance, says force is inevitable.”
Arthur Griffith was scheduled to speak on Sunday at the Sligo Town Hall with other pro-Treaty politicians. Considering what had just happened during his own speech, Michael had already arranged for Free State troops to be sent in to keep the peace and allow Sunday’s meeting to take place. The provisional government had passed a law with Royal Assent that stated that a general election would be held before June 30. Both pro- and anti-Treaty supporters were scrambling to connect with—or intimidate—voters.
We were interrupted by Robbie, who was hovering at the dining room door, his boots muddy, his hat in his hands, and his coat misted with rain.
“Doc, apparently one of the boys caught some shrapnel during the shooting in Sligo. He bandaged himself up and didn’t say anything, but now he’s sick. I thought you might take a look.”
“Bring him around to the clinic, Robbie,” Thomas ordered, throwing his napkin on the table and rising.
“And tell the lad that it’s the height of stupidity to ignore a wound when there’s a doctor on the premises,” Michael groused, shaking his head wearily.
“Already did, Mr. Collins,” Robbie answered. He saluted Michael, nodded at me, and followed Thomas from the room.
“I wanna watch, Doc!” Eoin cried, abandoning Fergus and the marbles for a front-row seat in the surgery. Thomas didn’t refuse him, and Fergus took the opportunity to make his rounds.
Michael and I were left alone, and I stood and began stacking plates, needing something to occupy my head and my hands. Michael sighed wearily, but he didn’t rise.
“I’ve brought chaos into your home. Again. It follows me wherever I go,” he said wearily.
“There will never be a day when you are not welcome at Garvagh Glebe,” I answered. “We are honored to have you here.”
“Thank you, Annie,” he whispered. “I don’t deserve your good will. I know that. Because of me, Thomas is rarely home. Because of me, he’s dodging bullets and putting out fires he didn’t start.”
“Thomas loves yo
u,” I said. “He believes in you. We both do.”
I felt his eyes on my face and met his gaze, unflinching.
“I’m not wrong about much, lass, but I was wrong about you,” he murmured. “Tommy has a timeless soul. Timeless souls need soulmates. I’m glad he found his.”
My heart quaked, and my eyes filled. I stopped my mindless stacking and pressed a hand to my waist, clinging to my composure. Guilt rose in my chest. Guilt and indecision mixed with dread and despair. Every day, I struggled between my responsibility to warn and my desire to shield, and every day I tried to deny the things I knew.
“I have to tell you something, Michael. I need you to listen to me, and I need you to believe me, if not for your sake, then for Thomas’s,” I said, the words like ash in my throat, like Eoin’s remains on the lake, billowing around me. But Michael was already shaking his head, refusing me, as if he knew where such words would lead.
“Do you know that the day I was born,” he said, “my mother worked up to the very moment of delivery? My sister Mary saw that she was in pain, that there was something happening, but my mother never complained or rested. There was work that needed to be done. And she kept moving.” His eyes never left my face.
“I was her eighth child, the youngest, and she delivered me during the night, all by herself. My sister told me she was up again almost immediately, not missing a step. My mother worked like that until the day she died. She was an unstoppable force. She loved her country. Loved her family.”
Michael took a deep breath. Clearly speaking of her still hurt him. I understood. I couldn’t think of my grandfather without pain. “She died when I was sixteen, and I was heartbroken. But now? Now I’m grateful she’s gone. I wouldn’t want her to worry about me. I wouldn’t want her to have to choose sides, and I wouldn’t want her to outlive me.”
