1921

by Morgan Llywelyn

Mick needs privacy to keep in contact with the IRB, Henry thought to himself. He has more people to report to than just Eamon de Valera.

  Henry was still there when Robert Barton returned to Hans Place late in the afternoon to change his shirt and collect some more documents. “It’s obvious,” Barton confided to Henry, “that the British are more interested in Michael Collins than in any of the rest of us. He fascinates them. Even the prime minister hangs on his words. But this is going to be an uphill gallop, Henry, and no mistake. Our side’s ill at ease because it’s our first introduction to diplomacy. The other side’s in familiar surroundings where they’ve met and defeated a hundred opponents. You should see the place. We sit there in a solemn row with the portraits of past prime ministers glowering down at us from the walls. And maps; great pull-down maps showing the extent of the empire. Lloyd George keeps referring to them as if talking about his own private game preserve.”

  Henry said, “They’re just trying to impress you, Bob—to intimidate you into losing your nerve.”

  “Oh we realize that.” Barton gave a faint smile. “George is a barrister and Eamon’s a solicitor, remember. They know about courtroom tricks.”

  AS the days went by, it became clear that the British had other weapons at their disposal. Lloyd George set about dividing the Irish delegation with surgical skill. By dismissing Barton, Duffy, and Duggan as opponents and patronizing them verbally, he cast doubt on their abilities. Meanwhile he concentrated on Griffith and Collins, flattering them as equals with whom he could do business.

  When Barton and Duffy responded with hostility to British suggestions on trade, Griffith rebuked them at the conference table.

  The thin edge of the wedge was in; would be driven deeper.

  KATHLEEN McKenna told Henry when he waylaid her on her way back to Cadogan Gardens one evening, “Because Erskine and his cousin Bob Barton are both English—what de Valera calls ‘intellectual Republicans’ ”—Lloyd George’s flunkeys are treating them with a deference that’s beginning to grate on Arthur’s nerves. He’s distancing himself from them emotionally; he can’t help it.

  “And it’s not just him. Every time Erskine asks that something be repeated so he can be certain of the exact wording, the prime minister deliberately calls attention to the delay. Makes it seem frivolous, unnecessary. You can see Mick holding his temper and trying not to be impatient, but now he’s unhappy with Erskine too.”

  Henry frowned. “I don’t like the way this sounds.”

  “Neither do I. But if I try to say anything about it, my ‘female intuition’ is simply dismissed. Yet I can see numerous undercurrents developing that the British know how to exploit and we don’t.”

  “Damn it, Kathleen, we don’t have centuries to learn to be their equals at political maneuvering. It’s all happening right now.”

  “I know,” she said sadly.

  GRIFFITH and Collins were invited to meet Lloyd George at Winston Churchill’s house for protracted talks. They dutifully reported the conversation in full to their colleagues. However, Lloyd George made veiled references to the meeting in front of the others, implying that some secret agreement had been reached to which the remainder of the Irish delegation was not privy.

  Michael Collins was not fooled by Lloyd George’s games; by his theatrical performances, his aggressively beetling brows, or his seductive voice which he played like a musical instrument. But there was no doubt the prime minister’s tactics were effective. Even the most intelligent man could not help being worn down day by day by a consummate games-master.

  ERNEST and Winifred Mansell owned a large, half-timbered mock-Tudor house in Kensington, replete with every modern convenience. Their cook was a brawny-armed Scotswoman whose frequent booming guffaw rang through the house, giving the lie to the dour Scot stereotype. The housemaids were competent, dark-eyed Welsh girls, with accents like water running over pebbles.

  AS the autumn days darkened, Michael Collins felt increasingly lonely. He wrote impassioned letters to Kitty Kiernan. But though lonely, he was not alone. Ned Broy hovered close like a guardian angel while Collins maintained his usual frenetic pace between appointments and attended an astonishing number of social engagements as well. Now that his cover was blown, he was seen everywhere. For a gunman he moved in the best circles. His friends in London society included the painter Sir John Lavery, whose wife, Hazel, was a famous beauty and devoted to the cause of the Republic. She persuaded Collins to sit for his portrait, and also arranged glittering dinner parties at which he was the star attraction. In other circumstances Michael Collins would have enjoyed himself immensely.

  But these were not other circumstances. This was life and death for a nation.

  When Kitty arrived in London for a visit, her presence did not provide the respite Collins needed. He was under too much strain to be the playful Michael she knew, and her Catholic conscience would not allow her to relax. She could not bear knowing that people were gossiping about them; worse still, she heard gossip concerning Collins and other women. The heightened tension resulted in unpleasant scenes, and Kitty returned to Ireland. From there she tried to mend the damage with loving letters to a man who scarcely had time to read them, but faithfully responded almost every day.

  HENRY Mooney, who rarely went to Mass, began attending regularly in London. Fully aware of the hypocrisy of his defiance, he flew his Catholicism like a flag. When he met Erskine Childers for a quick drink, he remarked on this to his friend. Childers, born and bred a Protestant, smiled. “Under the skin of every Irish Catholic lurks a pagan anarchy, Henry. Sometimes it bursts through in unexpected ways. In your case it’s a reverse form of religious rebellion. Don’t worry, old chap. When you get back to Dublin, you can ignore the Church again.”

  LLOYD George arranged to have separate meetings with Collins and with Griffith. With one he discussed matters relating to the military and the manning of coastal defense, while with the other he went into detail about commercial trade arrangements and the appointing of commissions. For each meeting his associates produced a huge portfolio of papers—thousands of details to be discussed and agreed upon, every word and phrase carefully chosen by experts at political language.

  DURING a break in the talks one afternoon Collins emerged from Downing Street at the trot. Henry had to sprint to catch up with him before he ducked into a waiting motorcar.

  “Have you a moment to speak to me, Mick?”

  Collins blinked, then held open the car door himself. “Sure. Sit in.” The Big Fellow was dressed in a black suit and a stylish homburg and had grown a little smudge of dark mustache in an effort to look like a plenipotentiary. As the two men settled back on the seat, he said, “It’s good to see your friendly mug, Henry. I know I promised you an interview this week, but between the jigs and the reels they’re keeping us pretty busy.”

  “That’s all right, I understand.”

  “You want to do it now?” When Collins ran a hand through his thick hair, Henry noticed with surprise that its dark brown was lightly flecked with silver. Michael Collins was only thirty.

  “Not right now,” Henry told him. “Mainly I just want to know how you are.”

  “Damned nice of you to care. I’m frustrated, that’s how I am. I came to this conference to call a spade a spade. It’s the only name I know it by. But to be a politician one needs to have the ability to say one thing and mean another; one needs to be abnormally successful at the art of twisting the truth. Can you wonder that I think and think and yet never manage to achieve peace of mind?”2 Collins gave a great sigh, like a man struggling beneath the weight of the world.

  “As for the prime minister,” he went on, “I find his attitude particularly obnoxious. He’s all comradely, all craft and wiles, all arm-around-the-shoulder—this man who wanted me dead just a few weeks ago. In my time I have told men and women what I thought of them. I’ve cursed them—and they understand me all the more for it. But what can one say to a politician?”

  �
��Maybe you don’t belong here, Mick.”

  “Damned right I don’t belong here. I’m beginning to think none of us do. Arthur Griffith is the only one with any claim to being a politician, but he’s probably the least well equipped.”

  Henry was surprised. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because he always tries to see the best in people. Arthur just doesn’t know human nature the way I do.” Staring morosely out the window, Collins went on: “Know what I just discovered? Erskine’s been sending back secret reports to de Valera that the rest of us knew nothing about. The British consider Erskine a renegade Englishman and don’t trust him, and now I can’t trust him either. Damn it, Henry! Dev demands that we act in consultation with him—never mind about this power of independent action we’re supposed to have—but he does just as he pleases without bothering to consult with us. He acts as if what matters most is not the conference, but maintaining his personal authority. It’s impossible to pin him down and find out what he does want us to do,” Collins concluded sourly.

  Kathleen spoke of undercurrents. Sounds like it’s the power struggle going on between Mick and Dev that’s the real danger.

  IN Ireland, Cathal Brugha wanted Austin Stack appointed deputy chief of staff of the IRA. Richard Mulcahy opposed the appointment, seeing it as a move to undermine Michael Collins in his absence. In London, Lloyd George established a principal conference attended by Griffith and Collins, and subconferences attended by the lesser players.

  On the twenty-fifth of November Michael Collins and Arthur Griffith traveled to Dublin for an urgent meeting of the cabinet.

  Behind the scenes in Ireland, Cathal Brugha was fighting with savage tenacity to retain the Republic and settle for nothing less. Behind the scenes in London, Erskine Childers was drawing up endless fact sheets and memoranda for the delegates to the same purpose.

  Meanwhile Lloyd George continued to bring a hundred subtle, clever, relentless pressures to bear on the Irish, designed to convince them they could not hope to prevail against the will and might of the empire.

  HENRY snatched every scrap of information about what was going on behind the door at 10 Downing Street. He wrote to Ned Halloran, “There are so many bargaining points and they each gain significance in turn. From day to day it’s hard to know which rock the agreement might break upon. All I know for certain is, it may well break.”

  By return post he received a terse note from his friend. “We’re ready in the west.”

  What had become of that bright autumn morning, Henry wondered, when he stood at the rail of the boat and looked down at Ella, smiling and waving in the sunshine?

  GRIFFITH and Collins returned to London in somber mood. When they arrived, Henry tried unsuccessfully to get an interview with either.

  He began to avoid Ella’s relatives as much as possible without being obvious. They were too polite to discuss the conference in front of him, but its unspoken presence was a specter at their table. Without anything being said he knew which way their sympathies lay—with their conservative Tory pocketbooks. The Union was good for business. Any rejection of the Union was therefore bad. As long as he maintained the persona of objective journalist, his Irishness could be politely ignored, like a speech impediment; but if he once let his mask drop and his nationalism show through, he would become, quite literally, beyond the Pale.

  AT last Henry managed to have a quick word with Michael Collins as the Big Fellow was rushing from one appointment to another. He was shocked at the way Collins looked. “Great God’s ghost, Mick! Are things that bad?”

  “Oh, the negotiations are still trundling on. Arthur’s convinced that moderation will win more for us than taking a hard line, and I’ve come round to his way of thinking. De Valera won’t agree, but I can see that the advantages of dominion status to us, as a stepping-stone to complete independence, are immeasurable.”3

  “So you’re willing to entertain a compromise?”

  “I’m considering it.”

  “You don’t sound very happy about it. If you don’t genuinely believe it’s the right thing to do, Mick, hold out.”

  “Hold out?” Michael Collins regarded him with haunted eyes. “While I was in Dublin last time I had a long meeting with my own lads.”

  The IRB, Henry interpreted. “And?”

  “I asked them for a report on our level of military preparedness in case the negotiations fall through.”

  “And?”

  For the first time in Henry’s memory, he saw Michael Collins’ broad shoulders sag. “According to their best estimate, the IRA has four feckin’ bullets left per man.”

  Henry felt cold in the pit of his stomach. “Does Dev know?”

  “Oh yes,” said Collins wearily. Closing his eyes, he leaned his head back against the leather upholstery. “I’m sure Dev knows.”

  Collins could be highly dramatic when the mood took him, but this was no performance. In the flatness of his voice Henry heard the sound of unvarnished truth.

  HE wrote tender letters to Ella, who wrote tender letters back to him: bits of family news, gossip about mutual acquaintances, trivia. By common consent neither wrote anything very serious. These were love letters.

  Henry had never received a love letter before. He went into a shop in Bond Street and bought a japanned box to keep them in.

  IN late November Eamon de Valera began driving across Ireland, accompanied by Cathal Brugha, meeting with IRA officers and giving inspirational speeches to their men. In ringing tones he exhorted them to fight for Ireland to the last drop of blood. “No offer will be accepted by the nation if that offer deprives us of the essentials of freedom. Freedom is a thing that you cannot cut in two—you are either all free or you are not free. It is, therefore, for complete freedom that we are struggling, and we tell everybody that this nation will continue to struggle for its freedom until it has got the whole of it.”4

  On the first of December a “Proposed Articles of Agreement” was delivered to the Irish delegation. Britain was offering dominion status and the title of Irish Free State, with six counties of Northern Ireland to be excluded from the Free State if the majority so wished. A British governor-general would be appointed and an oath of allegiance to the British sovereign demanded. Defense of Irish coastal waters would remain under the control of the British, who were to be given unlimited access to Irish ports and allied facilities. The Free State would also assume liability for a portion of Great Britain’s debts and military pensions.

  Arthur Griffith left London early the next morning to take the document to Dublin. De Valera drove up from Clare to meet him. After heated discussions, the president and the majority of the cabinet rejected the British proposal on the third of December. Griffith was instructed to return to London and tell Lloyd George the Irish would not accept either the oath or partition.

  Eamon de Valera was working on an alternative of his own. Referred to as Document 2, this proposed an external association with Britain which would not require the swearing of an oath of allegiance to the Crown. Meanwhile, in London, Duffy, Barton, and Childers set about drafting a new and less objectionable oath, one that did not promise to “be faithful to H.M. King George V, his heirs and successors by law.”

  But Lloyd George was not interested in alternatives. To compromise at this stage would be to lose control, and he had no intention of losing control.

  At a full meeting of both delegations in Downing Street he produced a document to which Arthur Griffith had earlier agreed. The document proposed setting up a boundary commission to reconsider the divisions created by the 1920 Government of Ireland Act. It had been presented to Griffith as a harmless quid pro quo, a bargaining chip to encourage the Irish to be more flexible on the questions of sovereignty and alliance. At the time, Griffith had considered it so minor he not even mentioned it to the others, even Collins.5

  But, Lloyd George now stated, in accepting a boundary commission the leader of the Irish delegation had also accepted the existence o
f boundaries. Boundaries defined partition: partition de facto as well as de jure.

  The Irish delegation sat stunned.

  The Welsh Wizard’s eyes blazed with cold fire. “Are you now going back on your word?” he challenged Griffith.

  Arthur Griffith, ashen-faced, squared his shoulders. “I have never gone back on my word, whether given to friend or enemy,” he said with dignity.

  Leaning toward him, Lloyd George purred, “Then since your delegation has accepted partition, you can no longer refuse to sign the Proposed Articles of Agreement on those grounds. This treaty constitutes Britain’s final offer, and your time has run out. Sign now or…” The prime minister straightened up and raised his voice to its full power. “If the Sinn Féin representatives refuse the oath of allegiance and refuse to come within the empire,” he cried dramatically, sweeping his piercing gaze around the room, “it means war in three days!”6

  For a moment there was absolute silence. Then Griffith protested, “I cannot sign that document without referring it back to Dublin!”7

  “Dublin, may I remind you, has already seen the Articles of Agreement,” Lloyd George asserted. “As plenipotentiaries you are fully empowered to act on behalf of those you represent.” He produced two envelopes and held them aloft, drawing all eyes. “Here I have two letters. Both are addressed to Sir James Craig in Belfast, and one will be sent tonight at ten o’clock. Either I tell him you accept our final proposal, or I tell him we are going to war. Winston says we can put two hundred thousand armed men into Ireland in a matter of days if need be.

  “Peace or war! Which is it to be?”

  Chapter Thirty-four

  PRECIOUS heard the postman’s bicycle coming up the road before anyone else did, and ran out to meet him. She returned to the house carrying a letter. “It’s from Uncle Henry in London. May I have the stamp?”