He had another bad night, not violent but as restless as ever, tormenting himself with memories of Finola. His mind overflowed with his past unkindness, his cruel lack of thought. Guilt racked him - guilt at his worthlessness compared to her goodness, guilt for being alive when she was dead.
The weather was foul in the morning. Rain, steady and impenetrable, grey and depressing. He sat in the doorway and glowered, knowing it was set for the day.
The priest wore fisherman's oilskins that evening. He brought some fruit, four green apples in a soggy paper bag. They drank the rest of the whisky and talked. But Pat was so morose and unresponsive that the priest left early, feeling frustrated and worried - frustrated that he had failed to connect with the man's mind, worried that the man might do away with himself.
Another day. A white sky, high up and far away, without cloud for once. Not much wind. Pat waited until mid-morning, then walked down the curling green road to sit in the Wishing Chair.
An hour passed. Pat hardly moved. Above him a crack of blue appeared in the sky - a thin stream of blue widening to a river, then a lake, then the whole sky was blue. It was like watching a stage. The Wishing Chair might have been the front row of the stalls. Pat caught his breath. The scene was transformed. Sand dunes turned gold, bare branches of trees were no longer grey but orange and brown. The sea came alive with a million dancing points of light, until it hurt just to look. His eyes smarted. His hands rose to shield out the glare. He was almost blinded, the scene was so blurred - and only when his hands met tears did he realise he was weeping. He buried his face in his arms and sobbed uncontrollably. The dam had burst. After twelve long days. It was a release, like a head of steam blowing a safety valve.
He never knew how long he wept, but finally he felt a great tranquillity, a sense of peace. The loneliness remained ... he would feel the loss every day of his life. Future pleasures would be muted compared to those of the past, victories would never be so sweet, defeats would be harder to sustain ... but he had a life, if he chose to live it...
Suddenly his mind filled with a picture he had previously rejected. He saw himself at Finola's graveside. Mick Collins was there ... and Dev and countless other old friends. Brigid stepped forward, carrying a bundle wrapped in a blanket. "Pat," she had called, "it's your son I have in my arms."
"A son?" he whispered, only half believing, "Finola, did you leave me a son?" He choked, remembering how many times she had looked forward to a child, especially a son. But was it true? He made himself think back to that dreadful night - to the room on Ammet Street. All those people. Finola on the bed. He concentrated on Brigid, standing there with a tiny baby at her breast. Brigid was always nursing a baby. Brigid's fertility made Finola feel her own lack more keenly. But he hadn't thought... or he had thought... then at the graveside, Brigid had said, "Pat, it's your son I have in my arms."
"I have a son," he said quietly. Suddenly he knew it was true. He shouted, "We have a son!"
A dozen thoughts struck him at once. The day, when Finola ... when his son was born. The British had left Dublin that day. His son would be the first of a new breed of Irishmen - freeborn, free of the British after eight hundred years. His son was the first, the very first! And another thing - it was Finola's seventh time pregnant. She had delivered a seventh son to a seventh son! My God, the boy would be a genius. The first freeborn Irishman, the seventh son of a seventh son - both together. And my son, Pat exulted ...
He knew he would go back to Dublin in the morning. He felt embarrassed. He had never run away from anything before. Yet he hadn't so much run away as been drawn to the island, as if it held a secret for him. What it was eluded him. He thought about it all afternoon. He had brooded on the meaning of life for days. He concentrated as never before ... and then it came to him ... the secret he would pass onto his son.
The priest found Pat in a changed mood that evening. Instead of doubt he found a certainty, an acceptance of life quite different from his own but every bit as sure. For Pat had at least glimpsed what he was searching for, even if he was to spend the rest of his life defining it.
The two men talked as old friends - but then men who argue as they had either become friends or enemies. Pat was glad - "Sure now, would you ever think the day would come when someone would abuse you as I have? Tis powerful sorry I am for the way I've spoken at times." He grinned, a real grin, free of bitterness for the first time since Finola died. "I'll tell you something, Father. Anyone ever speaks to you like that again, you let me know. I'll break his bloody neck."
But the priest was sad. "I failed you, my son. I tried, but I failed."
Pat rested a hand on the priest's shoulder. "You know, Father, when the British were about to shoot Connolly, a surgeon asked him to forgive his executioners. And Connolly said, 'I pray for all brave men who do their duty according to their lights.' Father, you did your duty like the brave man you are. Sure I'll always be grateful for that."
The priest made a final effort, "I shall be in church when you go in the morning, my son. Will you come to mass?"
Pat hesitated. Then he shook his head. "I know you'll not understand, Father, but a man ought to be able to make a life without your God, and without turning into the Devil. If I intend to try wouldn't it be an insult to set foot in your church? And I never insult a friend." He brightened, struck by a sudden thought, "It's one of my rules, Father - never insult a friend - one of the rules I'll live by."
At the crack of dawn next day Pat was back on Saint Patrick's Wishing Chair, casting a last look out to sea. Then, when the tide went out, he crossed to the mainland. He found the old British barracks quite easily. "I want to telephone Michael Collins himself in Dublin," he told the astonished IRA commander.
They locked him in the cells until the call came through.
Mick Collins roared down the line. "Where in God's name have you been? Haven't I enough on my plate without worrying myself sick over you?"
"Sure you're lucky. I've had damn all on my plate for days. Will you tell them to give me a decent meal before sending me home?"
Chapter Three
Mick Collins greeted Pat with open arms when they met in Dublin. The two men closeted themselves together for days, while Pat learned what had happened in his absence.
The anti-Treaty faction of the IRA had organised itself into a separate force and its new leader, Rory O'Connor, had called a press conference to repudiate the IRA's allegiance to the Dail. A reporter asked - "Are we to take it that you want a military dictatorship then?"
"You can take it any way you want," came the answer - and there seemed no other way to take it when Rory O'Connor's new independent IRA marched into the courts of justice in the Four Courts and took possession.
Pat was blunt in his advice to Mick, "You can't let them get away with it. Give me a squad of men and I'll flush them out by midnight."
But Mick was loath to set Irishmen to kill Irishmen. Besides he was worried sick about something else. The new Prime Minister of the North had flatly refused to consider any boundary rearrangement which might reduce the size of Ulster. Mick had banked on the Boundary Commission awarding the new Free State the best part of three counties. Without that he would never have signed the Treaty. Now people were saying he had sold out - him, Mick Collins of all people! Pat had never seen him so angry, nor so close to despair.
Collins was besieged by problems. In the south he had the anti-Treaty faction to worry about, while in the north Prime Minister Craig sanctioned the death penalty for the possession of arms. Craig went even further by appointing Sir Henry Wilson, arch-enemy of Irish nationalism, to set up a para-military force, the A and B Specials. Twenty-five thousand Orangemen joined up to preserve the six-county state of Northern Ireland. Ulster's Catholics went in fear of their lives and sought help from the only source available - the IRA. And as the prospects of an effective Boundary Commission receded, Mick Collins sent guns to the border, irrespective of whether the IRA units were for or against the T
reaty.
Pat Connors protested, "Mick, they'll use those guns on us one day."
"In God's name, what else can I do? Let our people be slaughtered?"
The shadow of the gun covered Ireland once more. Violence spread through the south like a cancer. Post offices were robbed, trains were held up, isolated villages were forced to pay "taxes" to support soldiers of the anti-Treaty IRA.
Collins worked like a demon, but the issues seemed irreconcilable. Dev and his supporters would have nothing to do with the oath of allegiance, nor would they accept a divided Ireland. Mick argued furiously "Australians swear the oath, Canadians, South Africans, every politician in the Commonwealth. Does it make them less free? Does it hamper the way they run their affairs? Sure it doesn't matter a damn!" And as for Ulster, "Help make the Boundary Commission work and we'll get the best part of three counties. Sure, what will they be left with? They'll have to fall in line with us in the end."
Dev remained unconvinced, but the two factions of the IRA were on the verge of open civil war, so something had to be done. Dev and Collins called for an election. The country would vote on the Treaty ... and, on 16 June, the Irish Free State went to the polls for the first time.
Pat took a couple of days off after polling day. He had worked nonstop for five months. By the middle of June he was exhausted. He slumped into his bed at Ammet Street and slept the clock round, his first such sleep - deep and undisturbed - since that night in January when he had scrambled ashore on Coney Island.
Pat had gone directly to Brigid's place on his return from Sligo. His haggard looks had startled her. She had stared at the scar on his forehead and the dark circles beneath his eyes. "I've seen better-looking faces eating hay," she said, before bursting into tears. Tomas had mashed some tea after that, while Brigid dried her eyes and fetched the baby.
"What's he called?" asked Pat, taking the bundle onto his knee.
"Sure will you listen to him," Brigid exclaimed. "And shouldn't he be telling us. But it's Sean, that's the name Finola always wanted in a boy."
Pat stared at his son, whose answering gaze was so bold that Pat burst out laughing, "He doesn't think much of me, does he?"
"And why should he?" Brigid demanded, taking the baby back and holding him to her shoulder. "Where were you when you were needed?"
"In the Post Office," Pat said with a rueful smile, "with Pearse and Connolly and other brave men."
He meant it as a joke, or at least an apology. But Brigid's nerves were too stretched for levity. "Here's your new Ireland, Pat Connors," she snapped, holding the baby in front of him. "That's what it's about. Babies and young ones growing up with food in their bellies. Not men murdering each other ... and fighting and killing ..." she choked and dissolved into tears, then ran from the room with the baby in her arms.
Pat rose to go after her, but Tomas waved him back to his chair, "Let her be. Tears are better out than in. She's been this way ever since ..." he squinted at Pat, "ever since Finola passed on. She's not over it yet."
After that the two men talked for a while, with Tomas pausing every so often to relight his pipe. Tomas was deceptive, Pat reflected, easily underestimated - he was not a leader but nor was he easily led. Tomas was - well, just Tomas. Happy enough to listen to anyone - but he went his own quiet way.
They agreed the baby would stay with Brigid, and Pat would visit when he could. After that, Pat rarely more than slept at Ammet Street. He worked from dawn to dusk for Mick Collins, and spent a few hours on a Sunday at Brigid's with his son. The baby fascinated him. He couldn't stop looking at it. Even while it slept Pat marvelled at the beauty in that tiny face. It wasn't just that the child was beautiful and would be a good-looking boy - Pat took that for granted. Most leaders had a certain physical appeal, so of course young Sean would grow into a fine figure of a man - but Pat's ambitions soared to a much higher plane and at times his secret thoughts made him seethe with excitement.
So after working all hours to polling day and refreshed by his sleep, Pat rose and hurried round to Brigid's place - where he spent an enjoyable day playing with his son. But a few hours of peace and quiet were enough for Pat. Assured of his son's well-being he was anxious to be off - and when a messenger arrived from Mick Collins, Pat was pleased even though the urgent summons concerned an event that threatened to shake London and Dublin to their very foundations.
It seemed that Sir Henry Wilson, having established new security measures in the north, had returned to London. On that particular day he had unveiled a memorial to the men of the Great Western Railway who had fallen in the Great War. That done he took a taxi to his house on the corner of Eaton Square, and there - on the steps of his own home - he was shot down by two gunmen, both of whom were chased and arrested by the police.
Events were chaotic after that. The two gunmen admitted to being members of the IRA. But which IRA? For now there were two - those who supported the Treaty, and those who were against it. Impressed by Mick's struggle to implement the Treaty, the British Government assumed that the assassins belonged to Rory O'Connor's rebel IRA. In fact Dunne and O'Sullivan, the two men arrested, had acted on their own initiative but, as Pat Connors well knew, Wilson's execution had been ordered months before by no less than Mick Collins himself. Westminster's reaction was a rare stroke of luck, funny enough to bring a smile even to Mick's troubled face - at least in private. In public he poured scorn on any suggestion that the men had been sent by either faction of the IRA. "Where is the proof?" he demanded, knowing that none would be forthcoming.
Meanwhile Mick held the British government at bay and prayed for time, time for the election results to come in. And two days later they arrived. Despite everything - despite intimidation from the anti-Treaty forces, despite much heart-searching about the north, despite the conflicting arguments - the Irish people had voted overwhelmingly in favour of the Treaty.
But Mick's celebrations were cut short. British public opinion was in an uproar about the killing of Sir Henry Wilson. Westminster issued an ultimatum. Unless Collins restored law and order - which meant arresting the rebels - the Treaty would be cancelled. Again Mick played for time - but the British were so adamant that after four days and four nights Mick could resist no longer. A note was sent to the rebels in the Four Courts demanding their surrender. No reply was received. At four o'clock in the morning of 28 June, two field guns were mounted on the opposite side of the Liffey - and at seven minutes past Mick Collins gave the order to fire.
Few people knew it, but the Irish Civil War was about to begin.
It took two days to reduce the Four Courts to rubble. Only then did Rory O'Connor surrender. Rebels elsewhere continued to resist. Pat Connors attacked anti-Treaty strongholds all over the city. One incident engraved itself on his memory. A St John's Ambulance man stood at the entrance to a blazing building, begging a small, dark-haired man to surrender. The man refused, instead he brushed the ambulance man aside and charged the Free State lines, firing a Thompson submachine-gun as he ran. At Pat's signal the man was cut down by a hail of bullets. Cautiously Pat moved forward to bend over the body. It was Cathal Brugha. Pat had last seen him at Finola's funeral, standing between Dev and Mick Collins. Pat's heart ached as he looked down into that white face. "Dear God," he muttered, almost in tears, "where will it end?"
But it was just beginning. Sixty people were killed and three hundred injured during eight days of street warfare. July was worse as fighting spread across the country. Old allegiances counted for nothing. Mick sent soldiers into the Grand Hotel at Skerries to arrest Harry Boland, one of his closest friends. Boland resisted and was shot in the stomach. He died soon afterwards, asking to be buried next to Cathal Brugha. Mick and Pat had lost another old comrade.
Bloody week followed bloody week. Mick cast all other duties aside in favour of his role as Commander-in-Chief of the Free State Army. He threw himself into the campaign. And wherever Mick went Pat was not far behind. By early August, helped by 10,000 rifles sent by
their old enemies the British, the Free State forces were getting the upper hand. When they captured Cork, Pat began to speculate on an early end to the fighting. But then came awful news. Arthur Griffith, overworked by running the government in Mick's absence, had collapsed and died. The Free State had lost its first elected leader.
Mick and Pat hurried back to Dublin for the funeral - but as soon as Cosgrave and Kevin O'Higgins were elected leaders of the Dail, Mick was anxious to return to Cork. "The rest of the country will fall into line if we can restore peace in Kerry and Cork," he said.
Pat nodded. "When do we go?"
"Not you. You stay in Dublin in case of trouble here."
Pat accepted the decision - and when Mick headed south, Pat strolled round to Brigid's place to spend a few precious hours with his son. He was astonished to see how the child had grown, and Tomas and Brigid were delighted to watch his excitement. Sean gurgled contentedly, and everyone enjoyed themselves.
Pat spent the next week checking security arrangements in the city. If Dublin held firm, Mick Collins would settle the rest of the country. Which is what Mick was doing - travelling the length and breadth of County Cork, inspecting his troops. His charm conquered everyone. Invariably he greeted his men with a joke, fashioning their mood until they were receptive to his message. First things first, he told them restore law and order, then prod the Boundary Commission towards a favourable settlement for the north. "We'll get a united Ireland, boys without further bloodshed if we play our cards right."
After which his convoy was away to the next stop. He travelled in the back of an open Rolls-Royce, flanked by motor-cycle outriders, with an armoured car in front and a Crossley tender behind. It made quite a procession - and the convoy had reached Baelnamblath, on the road from Macroom, when it was ambushed.
Ian St James Compendium - Volume 1 Page 84