The talks droned on through October to November and into December. The Ulster leaders, meeting Lloyd George separately, refused to have anything to do with the south. Ulster was British and insisted on remaining so. Then Lloyd George, as ingenious as a cartload of monkeys, came up with a compromise - two parliaments, one north and one south, with a boundary in between fixed according to the wishes of the inhabitants. Collins thought about it. The gains would outweigh the losses. They would get most of what they wanted ...
The talks gathered pace. Collins and Griffith argued long and hard. Membership of the British 'Empire' was ruled out ... but membership of a 'Commonwealth' was accepted. Words were played with, clauses altered ... until finally there seemed nothing left to argue about. Twenty-six of Ireland's thirty-two counties had won the freedom to govern themselves. The name of the new state in the south became the very last issue - the word 'Republic' was anathema to British ears - but even that was resolved by the adoption of Saorstat meaning Free State. The conference had lasted eight weeks - now, at last, the talks were over. The Treaty between Great Britain and the new Irish Free State was signed ... and the first details appeared in Dublin's newspapers that evening.
Finola screamed. Brigid winced as fingernails dug into the flesh of her upper arms. Instinctively she glanced down to see the effect of this latest contraction - only to blanch at the sight of even more blood seeping across the soiled sheet. Not seeping, gushing, spurting crimson red as from an open artery. She hid her terrified expression by lowering her face onto the pillow next to Finola's matted hair. She kissed Finola briefly, then pulled away and turned quickly to the small girl in the corner "Cooey! Outside - on the landing this minute!"
Cooey's eyes sprang open. Her mother's fear was obvious. Cooey bolted from the room. Brigid hurried after her, closing the door on Finola's screams. "Find Dary," Brigid said urgently, "try Doc Rafferty's in Meardon Street first - that's where he should be. If not... if not..." She pushed a hand through her hair, carrying a smear of Finola's blood across her forehead. She cast round desperately for other ideas. Dary was a good, sensible child, he'd be waiting on Rafferty as like as not, or seeking him out if he was off somewhere else. "If not," Brigid repeated helplessly, "well someone at Rafferty's will be knowing." She pushed the girl along the landing, propelling her by her shoulders. "Get the doctor back here now, Cooey, you understand that? Get the doctor here - then go looking for himself as fast as your legs will carry you."
"But where? Where will he be? Where will I be finding Uncle Pat?"
Brigid groaned. Pat Connors might be anywhere, in a pub probably, arguing his head off for the rights of Irishmen while the very life ebbed from the girl he married. "Try Mulligan's," she suggested urgently. "If he's not there like as not they'll know where to find him." She gave the girl a final push towards the top of the stairs: "And run Cooey, run all the way."
The girl's feet clattered on the steps, one hand sliding down banisters as high as her shoulders. She reached the half landing when she heard her mother calling after her. "And after himself fetch Father Murphy," Brigid shouted, leaning out from the balustrade, "and hurry now, Cooey, run all the way."
"Mick Collins is a fuckin' traitor," shouted the big man in the corner of Mulligan's Bar, "a traitor to all Ireland."
Conversation stopped dead. The sudden silence was deafening. All eyes swivelled to Pat Connors who froze with a glass midway to his lips.
The man advanced from the corner, shaking himself free of restraining hands. "Collins sold out, says I. The British still rule the north."
Pat lowered his drink and stared coldly. "You're drunk," he said quietly. "Any more of that and it's outside you'll be, flat on your back."
But the man ignored the warning. He pushed Danny Hoey aside and stuck a finger under Pat's nose. "Collins sold out," he repeated.
Pat tried to stifle his temper. He would never forget meeting Mick on his return from London. The newspapers were full of the Treaty. Mick slumped into the car as if he hadn't slept in a month. "What are they saying about me?" he had asked, bone-tired. Pat had answered loyally, "They are saying what's good enough for Mick Collins is good enough for them." Mick had grunted and looked out of the window. "You know, Pat, when I signed that Treaty it felt like signing my own death warrant. There will be trouble, mark my words, but we got the best deal we could. It gives us freedom to achieve freedom for the whole of Ireland. It's a big step forward, we must make people see that."
The man spat on the floor. "That's what I think of Mick Collins."
Pat growled a warning, "You'll not repeat that in my hearing. Mick and the others got the best deal they could - better than anyone would have thought -"
"Says Collins. But I say different and there's plenty who see it my way."
"You were there, I suppose?" Danny Hoey asked sarcastically. "Standing up to Lloyd George an' Churchill and the like -"
It was as far as he got. The big man turned and hit all in one movement. Danny's head went back like a chicken with a broken neck. Then Pat slammed his fist into the big man's stomach. Within a second every man there was throwing a punch. Mulligan himself scrambled over the bar and took a flying leap at the big man's friends as they charged from the corner. Eamon grabbed a man by the hair and bounced his head on the counter. The whole place erupted in uproar. Pat Connors was the target - the big man and two others took after him like dogs at a rabbit. Not that Pat reacted like a rabbit. He caught one such a blow that the man's feet lifted from the floor and he flew backwards over a table. Then Pat went down himself, with the big man swinging a boot. Danny Hoey, still groggy from that initial blow, barged into the big fellow and knocked him off balance. Pat rolled onto one knee, then catapulted forward into the big man's middle. Over they went, knocking chairs and tables aside, in and out of men's legs, swearing and grunting and gouging ...
The big man staggered backwards through the street doors. Pat went after him. Down they went, with the others emptying out onto the pavement to watch them battle it out. Pat was getting the better of it when a small boy broke through the ragged cordon of men. "Uncle Pat! Uncle Pat!" the boy shouted breathlessly. The onlookers grabbed him, pulling him back - but the boy squirmed away, as quick as a fish. "Uncle Pat!" he screamed, his small chest heaving. But Pat's head was full of his own stertorous breathing and the shouts of the crowd. "Uncle Pat!" screamed the boy. Then Pat heard. He glanced sideways, surprised to see the child so close. In that split second the big man lunged, looping his hands round Pat's neck and locking until his knuckles shone white in the lamplight. Pat's face jerked down to meet the big man's head with a sickening thud. One, two, three awful head butts. Those nearby heard Pat's nose break under the very first blow. The big man butted again. Pat reeled under the onslaught. Again the big man's head smashed into Pat's face ... and again, until the big man no longer had the strength to hold Pat upright. Pat hit the gutter like a sack of potatoes.
"Uncle Pat! Uncle Pat!" The small boy was on his knees. Tears streamed down his face. His narrow shoulders jerked as he sobbed. Mulligan swooped and lifted him clear. Someone ran out from the pub carrying the slops bucket. Guinness-scented water stung Pat back to life. He cursed, then opened one eye in his broken face as Danny probed with a handkerchief. Mulligan returned, barely able to hold the child who wriggled like an eel. Finally the boy broke free and threw himself down in the gutter at Pat's side. "Uncle Pat!" he gasped, still sobbing for breath, "Please - the Mammy says you're to come right away. Doc Rafferty's there, an' Father Murphy ... and ... oh, Uncle Pat!"
Chapter Two
Few in Ammet Street had a good word for Pat Connors when it came to the death of his wife. Even those who forgave his absence from Finola's death-bed could find no excuse for his subsequent behaviour.
The stories they told were true enough. Of how Pat came home that night, smelling like a brewery, with one eye closed and a gash as deep as the Liffey in his head. The room overflowing with people - Brigid of course, clutching the ne
wborn baby to her breast, the surgeon, Father Murphy and at least a dozen others. The keening and wailing could be heard all over the street. Pat strode in and fell to his knees, grasping Finola's lifeless hand in his own. He stayed there fully five minutes according to some, crouched silently, without a word, a cry or a murmur. When Father Murphy tried to comfort him Pat pushed him away. Brigid showed him the child, but Pat wasn't having that either. Instead he stood up and turned on his heel. His feet pounded the stairs and a moment later he was out in the street, swallowed up in the darkness.
They searched all night. Brigid's husband, Tomas, led men and boys up and down the Quays until dawn, fearing that Pat had thrown himself into the Liffey. In the morning Father Murphy and others looked all over - they even sent word to Mick Collins himself, who dropped what he was doing and rushed down to Ammet Street with the Dail at his heels. The neighbours never saw the like in all the years they lived there.
The wake when it came was the strangest imaginable ... with the women keening as usual, but half the men absent looking for Pat. Mick Collins himself came to the funeral, all dressed up in his new Free State uniform. Dev and Cathal Brugha came too - though it was no secret they were at Mick's throat over the Treaty. In Pat's absence, Tomas led the mourners, with Brigid beside him carrying the new-born child swathed in a white blanket. The rain held off, which was a miracle. The coffin was lowered into the ground and earth thrown over it. Father Murphy stepped forward, but Mick Collins brushed him aside. Instead of words Mick drew his revolver and fired a salute over the grave.
Then, out of nowhere, Pat Connors appeared. Some claimed after to have seen him watching from the cover of the juniper trees. Maybe they did, but the first most saw was when he pushed his way to the front of the mourners. Mick Collins was still over the grave, a haze of smoke rising from his revolver. He thrust the pistol away and stretched out to clasp Pat to his chest, but Pat held him at bay as he stared down at the loose earth. He was drawn and tired-looking, in need of a shave and attention to his bruised face - but no tears wet his eyes. Instead he bore a look of disbelief - the expression he might have worn if confronted by a barefaced lie.
Father Murphy whispered, "Glory be to the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost," and might have gone on in the same vein but for the look on Pat's face, which clearly said that was a lie too. How he did it without saying a word nobody knew, nobody cared either, they were too shocked at Pat's meaning.
Pat turned away. He pushed past Cathal Brugha as if the man weren't there. Brigid called after him, afraid he was leaving - "Pat, it's your son I have in my arms." He switched his gaze to the bundle in the blanket, staring as if he had never seen a baby before. People held their breath, hoping that sight of the infant might ease the shock from his eyes. But not a bit of it. Instead he shook his head, then pushed through the onlookers to walk across to the low wall surrounding the churchyard. It was broken in part, and freshly delivered stones waited on the ground for re-building. Pat stooped and gathered the largest into his arms. He retraced his steps to the grave, where he dropped to his knees and gently laid the stones into place over the broken earth. Father Murphy stepped forward, but Pat pushed him away and started back to the broken wall and the heap of loose stones.
"Pat," Mick called softly, "I've a mind to give a hand with that, if you'll let me."
Pat might have been looking at a stranger. Nobody would have believed the two men were close. Finally Pat's shoulders heaved into a shrug of indifference, and he turned away to gather more stones. Mick followed him silently - and after him went Dev and Cathal Brugha and every man there - like an army of ants, fetching and carrying from the wall to the grave. The cairn grew higher and higher. Pat paused now and then to check it for balance. Nobody spoke. The work progressed to the sound of stone clinking on stone - with the primitive melody of women keening in the background, and men's breath rasping as they strained under the weight of the stones.
It was soon finished. Standing four feet high and five square the cairn was solidly built. Pat rested his hands on stones a third the way down. When he pushed, veins like whipcord stood out from his neck. The cairn stood firm. Pat stepped back. A sob escaped his lips. Then he stepped back again until he was beyond the mourners and close to the juniper trees. Never once did his gaze leave the cairn. Mick Collins turned, as did the others. The scene resembled a tableau with everyone watching Pat stare at the cairn. But it seemed wrong to scrutinise a man grieving over his dead wife - so after a moment all eyes looked back to the cairn - and in those few brief seconds Pat Connors vanished.
The gathering broke up after that. Dev and Brugha hurried off for a meeting with their political friends. Tomas and Brigid led some of the others back to the empty room on Ammet Street. There was no talk as to what would happen to Finola's baby, it was just accepted that Brigid would care for him until Pat turned up - that was the talk, Pat and his astonishing behaviour. Where had he gone and how long for - those were the questions. Some wanted to mount another search, but Tomas was against it - "Leave him be," was his verdict. "Won't we lock up here and go home. Pat knows where we live well enough, he'll turn up when he's ready."
But weeks were to pass before Pat showed himself, and those days were a mess. Ireland was torn apart by the Treaty. Dev walked out of the Dail in protest, and with him went Erskine Childers, Cathal Brugha, Austin Stack, and even Robert Barton who had signed the Treaty in London along with Mick Collins. Even Ernie O'Malley - one of Mick's most trusted organisers - denounced the Treaty and all that it stood for. The oath of allegiance was the sticking point - that clause in the Treaty which compelled Irishmen in the Dail to swear allegiance to the British monarch as head of the Commonwealth. Dan Breen spoke for many when he said it made the Treaty "the negation of everything I ever fought for ... I'll never be compelled to give allegiance to a foreign king."
Mick and the others struggled on. Arthur Griffith formed an administration which ratified the Treaty by sixty-four votes to fifty-seven supported outside the Dail by the Church and business, along with the unions and most of the public - all of whom were sick to the back teeth with the killings. But a large part of the IRA was against it, so there was no telling what would happen. One thing was sure, more trouble was coming, and Mick Collins, beset by problems, missed Pat Connors more keenly than ever before.
As for Pat, he walked fair across Ireland. Finola's death had broken him. Shunning company, he took to the hills and walked. Nothing made sense any more, not God, not the Catholic Church, not Mick Collins, nor a Free Ireland, nor anything. He was lost. As lost as yesterday, lost as truth in the mouth of a liar. They were all liars - all the bloody priests, the bishops, the Pope - the whole fucking lot of them. There was no God - or, if so, God was a ghoul.
Pat's fists clenched and unclenched as he walked. He kicked the turf and banged into stone walls as if to knock them aside. He walked until he dropped - to wake at dawn ready to walk again. He seemed oblivious of the rain, or the mist, or the pale sun which occasionally pierced the scudding grey clouds. Constant damp ate into his joints and brought cramp to his muscles, but he felt no physical pain. He lived in his mind.
He experienced no emotion at all for much of the time, save that of anger. A deep burning anger, born of betrayal. What he valued most had been put to the sword. Someone would pay for that - the betrayers would pay - when Pat identified them.
He ate nothing for two days - then, on the third, bought some bread on the outskirts of a village. He walked quickly away from the startled shopkeeper, eating as he went. His travels were without plan. He cared not where he went. Only solitude mattered. The need to think lay heavy upon him. He stuck to the hills, avoiding villages, shunning contact with anyone.
He walked westwards, but lacked a clear idea of his whereabouts. Not that it mattered. Not that anything mattered now - for anger gradually gave way to despair. He kept going because it occupied his mind with minor decisions - which path to take, which wall to climb, when and where to cross a
river. And walking kept him alive, for he was soaked to the skin, and to stop might mean never starting again. So he pressed on, driving himself, taunting his aching body while jeering his past beliefs, cursing God, the Church and all humanity.
Late on the fourth day he reached the outskirts of Sligo. He had not been there before and was ignorant of the history of the place. Not that he cared. From an overlooking hilltop he saw the town straddling a river as it flowed into the sea. He paused, sniffing the salt air. Suddenly his pulse quickened. In the bay was an island, isolated, remote, cut off. He caught his breath. Perhaps it was his mood, but the very desolation of the island drew him. Without knowing why he knew he was going there. His journey would end on that speck of land surrounded by the cold waters of the Atlantic. He peered again into the fading light. But was it surrounded by water? A kind of causeway seemed to link it to land on the far side. He walked a hundred yards and stared again. Rain, finer than mist, filtered the scene, blurring outlines. He strained his eyes, still uncertain - but the mere suggestion of a causeway was enough to quicken his pace. He could not explain the compulsion which drew him - he just knew that he wanted to get onto that island.
It took an hour to reach the far side of the bay. He clambered down the cliff to the water's edge. Gulls swooped and screamed around him. Waves, shoulder-high, smashed into a promontory, drenching him with spume-tipped water which left seaweed in his hair. Sand and shale tugged at his feet. A buffeting wind, full of the pungent ocean, took his breath away - but the causeway stood before him like the entrance to a secret place.
Pat never hesitated. He plunged down the beach and started across, skidding on weed-covered rocks and cursing aloud as the very force of the water threatened to knock him over. Inexplicably, he felt excited. The sense of space, of sky and sea, of the strong, raw power of nature, was overwhelming. Gulls screamed alarmingly as they dived past his head, beating their wings, as if to drive him back. Pat roared defiance, but his shouts drowned amid the crashing waves and the rising howl of the wind. Then he stumbled. Suddenly he was down. Water swirled to his elbows and covered his haunches. Above him the sky darkened and the heavens opened up. Rain fell in a drenching downpour, while on all sides the sea spat and hissed as the tide raced in.
Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1 Page 82