Women of Courage

by Tim Vicary

  On his first stride into the room, Andrew noticed several things. A burly dark-haired man sat behind a desk in the middle of the room, facing the door. Surely that must be Collins - the round, beefy face, the air of confidence and command, marked him out. There was a window about six feet behind him, which meant his face was slightly in shadow, and to the right of the window a small man sat at a desk facing the wall. And there was a third man lounging against the mantelpiece on Andrew’s right. There was a fire burning in the grate behind him.

  In his second stride Andrew noticed that the man by the fireplace had a Mauser pistol in his hand. And there was a revolver on top of a pile of papers on Collins’ desk. And Daly had come into the room behind him. Not so easy, then.

  He stopped in front of the desk, bowed, clicked his heels, and held out his hand. He said: ‘A great honour, Mr Collins.’

  To his surprise Collins did not stand up or shake his hand. Instead he drummed his fingers on the desk beside the revolver and said: ‘Good morning, Mr Butler.’

  How the hell does Collins know my name? Forget that, do something, this is all wrong, they know. Automatically, he said: ‘I beg your pardon, Mr Collins?’ And he would have moved then, snatched the revolver from Collins’ desk and blown his brains out with it, if he had not seen, over Collins’ shoulder, the eyes of the little man at the desk in the corner, watching him.

  The eyes, behind the round pebble-lensed spectacles, were huge. Like the eyes of a scientist, peering at him like at a microbe under a microscope. Inhuman, compelling eyes. The eyes of the civil servant in Dublin Castle, Harrison.

  Andrew’s brain froze. His hand stopped moving. His body didn’t know what to do. Harrison?

  He stood quite still while his brain failed to take it in. Then he realized that there was something horribly familiar about the third man standing in front of the fireplace, pointing the round black snout of the Mauser directly at Andrew’s heart. He had seen him before, too. Where? At Ardmore, that was it. He was the third man in the group who had come to Ardmore to demand money for the Loan; the man Andrew had expected to kill at the Blackwater Bridge along with Slaney and Rafferty. Davitt, he was called. The man whose place in the car had been taken by a young boy.

  Ten seconds had passed and Andrew’s brain was still frozen. Collins’ hand closed on the butt of the revolver. He glanced at the man by the fireplace. He asked: ‘Is that him?’

  ‘That’s the fellow,’ the man said. ‘That’s the bastard who murdered my little brother.’

  From behind Andrew, Daly said: ‘What’s happening, Mick?’

  Collins leaned back in his chair, the revolver held casually in his right hand. ‘Keep your eyes on him, Paddy. This isn’t a German count. This is a British spy. Andrew Butler, from Ardmore. He murdered Slaney, Rafferty and Frank Davitt’s baby brother.’

  Andrew said: ‘Ich verstehe nichts. Wer sind Sie?’

  Collins said: ‘Don’t trouble yourself with play-acting, Mr Butler. Here, perhaps you’d like to read this.’

  He picked up a sheet of paper from his desk and passed it over to Andrew. Andrew took it. At the bottom was the signature of Colonel Sir Jonathan O’Connell-Gort. Above that it said:

  In my capacity as commanding officer of Military Intelligence Dublin, I confirm that a reward of £10,000 will be paid to Major Andrew Butler in the event that any action of his is the main or substantial cause of the arrest of Michael Collins, dead or alive.

  It was the second copy of the contract that Sir Jonathan had signed in Dublin Castle. The one that was to be kept in Harrison’s safe, Andrew remembered. Even as he held it in his hand and read it, Andrew’s brain unfroze and his thoughts began to flow again. Any minute now they would kill him. But for the moment Collins held some more papers in his left hand and had the air of someone in control, who wanted to justify himself first. Collins held the revolver clumsily, not like a soldier. Daly was behind Andrew to the right. Harrison would be no problem. The first man to deal with was Davitt, who held the Mauser rock- steady, unwavering.

  Collins said: ‘You recognize that, Mr Butler, I suppose? Clear proof that the British government employs murderers?’

  Andrew looked up and saw Collins, Harrison and Davitt watching him closely. He realized suddenly how important the sheet of paper was to them. He scrumpled it into a ball and flung it past Davitt, into the fire.

  Collins rose to his feet, and yelled: ‘Frank! Get it out!’ Davitt turned, looked behind him, and lowered the muzzle of the gun. Andrew drew the knife from his left sleeve, stepped forward, and stabbed it into Davitt’s throat.

  As Davitt collapsed Andrew twisted the knife, turned and saw Collins two feet from him, raising the revolver. With his left hand Andrew grabbed Collins’ right wrist, pulling the hand with the revolver up and across Collins’s body, so that the gun was no longer pointing towards Andrew and Collins was pulled off balance and falling sideways towards him. With his right hand Andrew stabbed upwards with the knife, aiming to catch Collins under the ribs, below the heart.

  As he stabbed, Davitt’s legs, jerking in the throes of death, kicked Andrew behind the knee.

  Andrew fell with Collins on top of him. The knife snagged in the thick cloth of Collins’s jacket, and fell out of Andrew’s hand, on to the floor somewhere, out of reach. The revolver dropped out of Collins’ hand into the fire.

  Collins was a big man, heavy. Andrew wrenched himself sideways and reached for Collins’ throat, but at the same time Collins punched him in the ribs and a boot landed in Andrew’s back and he thought: There’s no time, it takes minutes to strangle a man and Daly will shoot me long before that. So he jabbed his fist into Collins’ face and rolled clear, turning fast, to see Daly with a gun in his hand thumbing back the safety catch.

  Andrew dived at him, catching him hard around the waist in a rugby tackle just as the gun fired above his head. He knocked Daly to the floor and grabbed his wrist before he could fire the gun again. For two or three seconds there was a tense, vicious struggle for the gun. Daly was a big strong man and wouldn’t let go, and Andrew was aware of Collins getting to his feet on the other side of the room. The little man Harrison was behind him, shaking, useless.

  Andrew jerked Daly’s arm right back, over his shoulder, and butted him in the face. Daly loosened his grip. Andrew dragged the gun out of his hand, stumbled to his feet, lifted it, aimed it at Collins, pulled the trigger and …

  The bloody thing misfired.

  Collins was on his feet, running towards Andrew, and before Andrew could pull the trigger again Collins was on him and they lurched, punching and wrestling for the gun, against the wall near the door. Collins was very powerful and Andrew could get no advantage. He saw himself being held in a bearhug until Daly was up and then the two of them would have him for sure.

  Collins reached behind him, dragged open the door and yelled: ‘O’Reardan!’ In the moment when Collins loosened his grip Andrew forced him back, heaving him out through the door on to the landing. They reeled against the banisters, Andrew drew his knee up into Collins’ stomach, and as the big man doubled up Andrew dragged his hand with the pistol free. Almost free. Collins grabbed for it again and the weight of his movement sent them both tumbling, off balance, down the stairs.

  Collins hit his head on something and slumped across Andrew, stunned. The gun was gone, lost, fallen out of sight. As Andrew dragged himself to his feet, the door from the shop opened and O’Reardan came through it, his Mauser in his hand. He was about five yards away from Andrew, halfway down the two steps leading into the shop. He glanced wildly along the passage, trying to take the scene in. ‘What’s happening?’ he said.

  Andrew lurched to his feet and stepped forward, holding out his hand and smiling. Davitt’s blood was dripping from his hand but he didn’t see it. ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘We just fell down the stairs, that’s all.’

  Just one more step and I’ll have hold of that gun, Andrew thought. The man’s confused, he’ll do what he’s
told. Pray God his gun works, and doesn’t jam like the other. ‘Put down the gun and give me a hand here, will you?’

  From the top of the stairs Daly yelled: ‘Shoot the bugger, Brendan!’

  O’Reardan backed away up the steps into the shop, waving the gun from side to side. ‘Don’t worry,’ Andrew said. ‘It’s all right now.’

  O’Reardan shot him in the face.

  In the telephone box on Dominick Street Sean had been speaking to the secretary at Clancy’s Joiners and Decorators. He told her he wanted to speak to Michael Collins, but she said he was in a meeting. ‘I don’t care!’ Sean said. ‘It’s urgent. Someone’s coming there to try to kill him! Get him, will you!’

  The secretary said: ‘All right,’ and then she screamed. Sean yelled: ‘Hello? Hello? What’s happening there?’ But there was no answer. Only a confused clattering over the crackle of the phone. And before that there had been a bang, like a gunshot.

  Sean put down the phone and said: ‘He’s there now. There’s a fight going on.’

  Catherine stared at him, aghast, her face still smudged with the black smoke of the fire. His face was frozen, distant. She knew what he was going to say. She gripped him tightly by the shoulders and said: ‘Stay here, Sean. You can’t go. It’ll be all over by the time you get there. You’ve done what you can.’

  He pushed her aside and opened the door. ‘It’s only in Mary Street. It’s just a few minutes.’ He was halfway out of the door.

  ‘Sean, please. Stay here with me!’

  He paused, looked in her eyes. ‘Wait for me outside. Or if not, meet me in Parnell Square tonight.’ There was a tension, a fear in his eyes, but a trace of that wide, boyish grin flickered for a second across his face, and he said: ‘I love you.’ He kissed her smudged nose and was away, sprinting down the street, his boots sparking on the cobbles as he ran.

  After a few seconds’ pause Catherine ran too, after him. Her bare feet hurt sometimes on the loose stones but she ignored the pain. Usually she could run fast but her breath came short and she had to stop and cough because of the smoke that was still in her lungs. But I have to go on, I can’t lose him now, she thought. She had tried to exorcize him and she had failed; he had come back from nowhere to save her life. For better or worse this was the only boy she loved and she couldn’t let him out of her sight now.

  Sean turned left into Parnell Street, dodging between trams, making a grocer’s delivery boy on a bicycle wobble wildly. Catherine followed. A group of soldiers passing in a lorry laughed and whistled. Catherine thought they must look like a pair of students on some prank, she madly chasing her boyfriend who had covered her with soot. If the soldiers thought it was all a game, so much the better.

  As they came down Jervis Street she realized it had started to rain. Thin cold rain that blurred her vision and bit at her face. Most of the people here were well-dressed, prosperous, struggling with umbrellas. Several of them turned to look at her and then glance ahead at Sean, and she thought: If I draw attention to him, that might be the worst of all.

  So she slowed to a walk, letting him get ahead. When he came to the end of Jervis Street he turned left. When she reached the corner half a minute later she saw the sign for Clancy’s twenty yards away on the opposite side of the road.

  Oh, God, don’t let Andrew be there, she thought. I don’t want Sean to murder anyone else now, not even him.

  Ever since Brendan Road, Kee had been determined that there would be no more failures with Sinn Feiners slipping out of the back entrance while he was raiding the front. This time, he took young Foster round to the back with him, to survey the scene. It was not easy, from Upper Abbey Street, to determine which were the most likely rear exits from buildings in Mary Street, but they located them at last. Kee left Foster there, and promised to direct a section of the troops round to him as soon as they arrived. The raid was not to begin until Foster had sent a messenger back to Kee, to confirm that they were in position.

  When they had discussed this, Kee walked back to Mary Street to watch the front door, and wait for the army lorries to arrive.

  Three minutes before he reached the front of the building, a woman came out of the front door. She glanced up and down the street, as though expecting someone to be waiting for her. When no one appeared, she went back inside, and came out almost immediately with four men, two of whom were pushing bicycles.

  One of the men was limping, and another had the beginnings of a black eye. The third was very small, with a briefcase and enormous pebble glasses. He and the man with the limp got on a tram with the woman. The other two mounted their bicycles and pedalled away swiftly into the crowds, pulling down their hats and turning up their collars to shield themselves against the rain.

  Catherine saw Sean open the door of Clancy’s and walk in. She sheltered in the doorway of a shop on the opposite side of the road, shivering, and waited for him to come out. She wondered if she should go in after him. But she didn’t want any part of it, not even revenge against Andrew, not any more. Sean had told her to wait outside and that was what she wanted to do.

  She was not in the habit of praying but she prayed now, swiftly and urgently and repetitively, that Sean would not meet Andrew in there and that he would come out alive and give up killing and still love her. Oh, please, God, I’ll even start going to church again and go to confession and light a hundred candles if only you’ll grant me that.

  She saw Kee before he saw her. He crossed the road, a sturdy determined figure with his thick neck and feet planted heavily on the ground, and stood for a moment staring at the door of Clancy’s. The rain dripped off his hat and he had his collar turned up against it, hiding half his face, but it was Kee all right, there was no doubt of that. And so Catherine knew God had not listened, and it was all going to go wrong.

  Kee glanced up and down the street impatiently as though he were waiting for something. She wondered if she could sneak across the road behind his back and go into Clancy’s and warn Sean, but there was no way Kee could fail to see her go in because he was watching the other side of the road all the time.

  Perhaps he would go away. Perhaps she could ring the number that Sean had rung and warn the people inside. But she could see no phone and she didn’t know the number. Perhaps she should wait until the moment Sean came out of the door and then spring on Kee and tear his eyes out.

  She was still dithering when the soldiers arrived. Two army lorries and an armoured car pulled up with a grinding of brakes about twenty yards down the road. Kee hurried across to meet them, and a moment later one of the army lorries drove away up the road and turned left. Kee came up the road with about a dozen soldiers, wearing tin hats and armed with rifles. It’s worse than an execution, Catherine thought. Sean’s in there and I’ve got to stop them somehow but there’s only me and all those men and I don’t know what to do.

  The soldiers stood on the pavement about five yards from the door as though they were thinking of checking passers-by but Catherine was sure they had not come for that. Kee stood looking at his watch and Catherine saw a single soldier running down the road towards them from the right, where the lorry had gone.

  It was at that moment that Sean came out. He stood in the doorway of Clancy’s, glancing up and down the street, and Kee saw him immediately. Catherine started to run. She sprinted straight out into the street between two bicycles and dodged behind a tram but it was always, always going to be too late. She saw Kee shout something to Sean and Sean hesitate and then put his hand in his pocket and start to pull out his gun no don’t do that please Sean! and long before the gun was even half out of his pocket Kee had raised a revolver and three of the soldiers had raised their rifles and before she even heard the bangs she saw Sean jerk and twitch like a marionette and then slump down head lolling on the pavement with his back against the door.

  She reached him and had his head in her arms but it was far, far too late. He opened his eyes once so perhaps he saw her but then all the life was gone from
them and blood dribbled out of his mouth and down his chest where it soaked into his shirt with the rain.

  Kee gave an order and the soldiers surged past, stepping over his body with their big boots, hurrying into the building.

  Catherine could never remember much of the sequence of events after that but after a time she saw two bodies being carried out on a stretcher into the drumming rain. One of them was Andrew’s. She didn’t know if the body was dead or not, but it meant nothing to her, it wasn’t Sean.

  A while later her father was there, she didn’t know how. He put his coat around her shoulders and led her away and she didn’t resist. She didn’t think she would resist anything ever again, not any more.

  35. On O’Connell Bridge

  DALY PACED up and down the drawing room of the big Georgian house. He was furious. For once not even Michael Collins could overawe him.

  ‘If you’d just told me, Mick!’ he was saying. ‘I could have had the knife off him and handcuffed him before he ever came upstairs. Why didn’t you say?’

  Collins looked up wearily from where he sat on the edge of a chair, his head in his hands. The room was a wreck. He had already smashed a chair and a row of ornaments against the wall in his rage and grief. His friends were used to these outbursts, but today it seemed childish, futile, even to himself.

  He said: ‘I asked you to search him, now, Paddy, didn’t I?’

  ‘Yes, but not for a bloody knife! And you knew he was an assassin all along!’

  ‘Oh yes, I knew.’ Collins drummed his fists on his knees as though he would break them. Then he stood up suddenly and put his hand on Daly’s shoulder. ‘It’s not your fault, Paddy, it’s all mine. I underestimated the man, and I wanted to see him and surprise him for myself. That’s why Frank Davitt died.’

  ‘But what was the point of it all anyway?’

  ‘The point?’ Collins sighed. ‘There were two points, really. The first was to get justice for those three boys who died down in County Waterford. You knew about that, surely?’ Collins explained briefly what had happened. ‘The other papers that Harrison brought me - they were copies of the RIC investigation into the murders. I asked Frank Davitt to be there just to provide the final proof that Butler was the man they spoke to, and to give him the satisfaction of knowing that justice was to be done. I won’t have our boys being murdered by the bloody British, damn them! That’s what it’s all about. And now all I do is get Frank killed as well. I wish it had been me.’