1921

by Morgan Llywelyn

  Ned said indifferently, “You can have the whole letter.”

  “But it’s addressed to you.”

  Ned shrugged.

  Precious ran her thumbnail under the flap and opened the envelope without tearing it, so Aunt Norah could use it for storing seeds. As she read the letter she began to smile. “The Irish delegation is leaving London now, he says, and he plans to come to Clare for a visit while the cabinet is holding closed meetings in Dublin. Oh, Papa, how wonderful!”

  “Wonderful that he never bothered to ask first,” Ned growled. “Just took for granted that he’d be welcome.”

  “But of course he’s welcome. This is Uncle Henry we’re talking about.”

  “Your Uncle Henry,” Ned retorted. “Not mine.”

  When Henry arrived on a bleak December day, Frank and Precious met him at the train station. “You’re always very welcome here,” said Frank, “but I should think you’d rather be with Mrs. Rutledge.”

  “She met me at the boat yesterday and we spent the afternoon together,” Henry replied. Together in her studio amid the smell of oil paints and turpentine. The daybed. Ella’s flesh golden and glowing…

  He gave himself a tiny shake. “I…mmm…need to have a little quiet time to myself just now, though. She understood.”

  He was not sure she understood. The disappointment on her face had been all too plain. But after a few glorious hours together when they talked about nothing and their bodies said everything, he had left before the conversation could come around to the wedding. He felt shredded. He could not summon the strength to deal with the religious problem yet.

  “London was desperately hectic,” he said aloud. “We agreed that a few days’ rest in the country would do me good.”

  “Would you not go to your family in Limerick?”

  “Sure and I’d have no peace in Limerick. Any time I walk through my mother’s doorway I’m likely to be greeted with ri-rá and ruaille buaille.* Besides—” Henry winked at Precious—“my family’s here.”

  She winked back. “That’s how we feel too. But you’ll have a wife and family of your own one of these days. And I’m to be an attendant at the wedding, remember? You are still getting married next October, aren’t you?”

  “If she’ll still have me by then.” What a politician I’m becoming—never a straight answer. His most ardent desire was to put his head down on a pillow that smelled of Atlantic wind and sleep until the cares of the world went away.

  “YOU lot are dreadful gosterers, have ye nothing to do but talk?” Norah Daly asked as she removed the half-full plate from Henry’s place. “Look at that, you barely touched your food.”

  “I ate all I could, honestly.”

  She pursed her lips. “They ruined you in London, so they did. Took your nice healthy appetite away from you.”

  While the others barraged Henry with questions, Ned Halloran sat silently at table with his eyes on his plate.

  “Go on,” Frank urged, leaning forward over his own neglected meal. “Finish telling us about the treaty negotiations.”

  “Please, Uncle Henry,” Precious implored, “we want to hear every detail. You were right there, it must have been dreadfully exciting.”

  He shook his head. “Heartbreaking, more like. I don’t know that we ever had a chance, Little Business. It was impossible to know what de Valera intended; he stayed at a distance so he couldn’t be pinned down. Meanwhile there were so many letters, telegrams, documents, discussions, conversations, subconferences—at various times the Irish representatives separately, in London or Dublin, agreed, or partially agreed, to a number of aspects of the British proposal without ever accepting it in its entirety. The British kept copies of everything, including transcripts of every conversation. Our lads tried to do the same, but there was so much going on at so many levels their secretaries couldn’t cover it thoroughly.

  “At last Lloyd George plucked a combination of words from all that avalanche of language and used it against us. He pinioned poor Arthur Griffith and proved to him that he had already accepted too much to turn back. Griffith was compelled by his own honor to sign. The prime minister convinced him it would mean war otherwise.”

  Precious had been following his narrative intently. “Was Lloyd George bluffing?”

  “That goes right to the heart of the issue,” Henry replied. He had long since ceased to be surprised by the girl’s perspicacity. “But it’s a question no one dared ask at the time. I have a hunch he was bluffing, but I can’t prove it. It doesn’t matter anyway now; the treaty’s been signed.”

  At last Ned looked up. “What about Mick Collins?”

  “Lloyd George had made Mick all sorts of grandiose but vague offers of important posts within the empire ‘afterward.’ But he never won him over. And when it came to the sticking point, Mick stood by Griffith, though he must have been mighty angry at having the boundary commission agreement sneaked past him. But that was Lloyd George’s doing; he didn’t hold it against Arthur.

  “Mick told the other delegates exactly how depleted our army was in terms of men and materiel, and asked if they wanted to send our lads out to be slaughtered. In the end, he persuaded them. At two-thirty in the morning, so worn out they could hardly see to write their names, they all signed. Signed their names in Irish, every one—that beautiful flowing old Irish script that owes nothing to the Anglo-Saxon.

  “Next day the London papers quoted Winston Churchill as saying…wait a minute, I have it here…” Henry rummaged in the pocket of his waistcoat and withdrew a press clipping. He read, “Michael Collins rose looking as though he were going to shoot someone, preferably himself. In all my life I have never seen so much pain and suffering in restraint.’1

  “When I managed to have a few words with Erskine Childers later,” Henry added, “he told me that Mick had said, ‘I’ve signed my own death warrant.’ ”

  Ned pushed his chair away from the table and stood up. “From his mouth to God’s ear. He deserves to die for what he did.” He stalked from the room.

  Hastily excusing himself, Henry followed him outside. He caught up with him just as Ned was heading for the barn. “What’s the matter with you, Ned?” he wanted to know, putting a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Mick had no choice. If he’d rejected the Treaty he would have condemned Ireland to a much worse war than anything we’ve endured so far.”

  Ned whirled to face him. His green eyes held a deadly glitter. “Take your hand off me.”

  Henry drew back in astonishment. “I don’t understand.”

  “I’ll spell it out for you if you’re that thick. My Síle died for the Republic, and now Mick’s pissed it all away.”

  “She didn’t die for the Republic, Ned,” Henry said, realizing that his friend’s loss was still paramount in his thoughts, coloring everything. “Síle’s death was no more than a terrible accident—she was in the wrong place at the wrong time. You mustn’t try to make a martyr out of her.”

  Ned’s eyes narrowed to slits through which a tormented soul peered. “You never liked her.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “You never approved of her because of her past.”

  “That’s not true either. I have nothing against the girls who work in Monto. I could hardly condemn them when I used to spend so much time with them myself. Besides, Síle was extraordinary. Once I got to know her, I loved her just as much as—” Henry stopped abruptly. Once again his treacherous tongue had gone too far.

  The festering abscess of Ned’s anger swelled; burst. “The devil take your soul, Henry Mooney! Aunt Norah told me you’d been in love with my wife all along, but I didn’t want to believe her. Now you’ve admitted it yourself. How could you do that to me? I thought we were friends.”

  “We are friends, the best of friends; you’ve got the wrong end of the stick entirely. When I said I loved Síle, I meant I admired her for—”

  “Don’t try to play word games with me—you’re a master of words like your
British pals!”

  Henry fought back a rising tide of anger. “That’s not fair, Ned. I love Ireland as much as you do.” Change the subject, get him talking about something else. “So does Mick Collins. He simply believes, and I have to agree with him, that we can’t force acceptance of the Republic right now. It will take a lot of hard work. For one thing, we have to get the twenty-six counties on their feet economically, then win the Unionists over and convince them their best interests in the long term lie with the rest of us. You must understand that…”

  “I understand that you were making love to my wife behind my back, you bastard!” Ned exploded. “Just look at you. It’s written all over your face. While I was in prison, was she in your bed? Did the two of you have a good laugh at my expense, poor dumb sod gone off to fight for Ireland?” He whirled away and ran into the barn.

  Henry was aghast. He must tell Ned, make him believe…Believe what? That I didn’t love her? I can’t leave it like this; he’s hurting too much. I have to make him understand that nothing ever happened between us. Couldn’t have. Síle’s fidelity was above reproach. That’s one of the reasons I loved her.

  Ned returned from the barn. He was carrying a rifle.

  “I want you off this farm,” he said furiously. “Get your things and leave now. Tell them inside anything you like. But go back to Dublin on the next train. If you ever set foot on this land again, you’re a dead man.”

  “Ned, you don’t mean this. You’re not thinking clearly. Just listen to me…”

  Ned raised the rifle.

  “You’re bluffing.”

  “Like your friend Lloyd George? You’re about to find out.” Ned’s cold green eyes sighted along the barrel. Taking aim on Henry’s heart, he drew a deep breath and held it so as not to spoil the shot.

  Henry quickly raised his hands palm outward. “You win, I’m going.” He turned and headed back toward the house. By the thread of icy sweat trickling down his spine he knew that the rifle was leveled on him all the way.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  HENRY had longed for the peace and quiet of Clare. Instead he found himself on the train headed back to Dublin, into the eye of the storm.

  He believed Griffith and Collins had done the best they could under the circumstances and gained all the concessions they thought possible. Indeed, they had achieved a greater degree of autonomy for Ireland than she had possessed since the English conquest of the island began. But would it be enough to satisfy the Republicans?

  Is it enough to satisfy me? I too had tears in my eyes at the sight of the flag of the Republic flying above the GPO. How can we accept the indefinite postponement of a dream we’ve held, if only for a few moments, in the palm of our hand?

  The Dublin to which Henry returned had changed considerably since the ebullient October of 1921. Now people were edgy, uncertain. Details of the Treaty were being published in the papers, but the language was tortuous and every element was subject to more than one interpretation.

  “Plain folk can’t make any sense of them,” Louise complained to Henry at number 16.

  “That’s not surprising. The negotiations weren’t really about agreement, they were about coercion.”

  “What does that mean—‘coercion’?”

  “Powerful pressures that can work and work on a mind until the strongest resolve crumbles.”

  When he called next day at Herbert Place, Ella welcomed him warmly. “I hope you’re going to stay in Dublin longer this time.”

  “I am going to stay longer. The country wasn’t…well, it didn’t do for me what I’d hoped.”

  “You don’t look very rested,” she admitted. “You poor old dear.” She stroked his cheek with her fingers, but although there was no one else in the house but the servants, she did not invite him upstairs.

  “Have you had any letters from your cousins in London in the last few days?” he asked casually.

  “Why?”

  “I just wondered. I had the impression they didn’t think very much of me.”

  “Of course they liked you.”

  “As a prospective husband for you?”

  “Who I choose to marry is my own business,” she said in a crisp tone.

  But she had not denied receiving letters from London.

  Pressures, Henry thought. Coercion. How does anyone know what’s going on behind his back?

  When he returned to number 16 Henry sat down with the separate notebook in which he kept the names and addresses of all the newspapers and periodicals in Ireland, Britain, and America who now bought material from him. Was there enough work there to support a wife properly?

  Properly. By whose standards? How can I compete with what some Englishman could give her?

  ON the fourteenth of December Dáil Éireann convened in the Convocation Hall of the National University to debate acceptance of the Treaty. Henry Mooney was among more than a hundred journalists crowded together at one end of the room. He wrote in his notebook: “Eamon de Valera immediately took over the proceedings to deliver a long speech, partially in Irish, exonerating himself in advance. It was obvious that sides already were being taken. Deputies changed their seats in order to be close to those with whom they agreed.”

  On the sixteenth the British parliament voted to accept the Articles of Agreement for a Treaty Between Great Britain and Ireland.

  Dáil Éireann was still debating ratification. De Valera called on the delegates to reject the Treaty in favor of his own Document 2, but it was not seriously considered. They knew it stood no chance with the British.

  THE Ulster Unionists were volubly unhappy about the Treaty. Lloyd George had promised Craig nothing would be agreed without referring back to him first. But when Griffith agreed to sign the document, the prime minister had pushed ahead and committed His Majesty’s government without any further consultation with Belfast.

  Sir Henry Wilson, newly elected Unionist MP for North Down, was scathing in his personal condemnation of the Treaty. He saw any agreement with the Irish as surrender to an enemy he had been unable to crush.

  In the matter of the boundary commission—that rock over which Arthur Griffith had stumbled—Lloyd George had indicated that the wishes of the inhabitants of the six northern counties would be consulted. If this was allowed, the Unionists knew that Tyrone and Fermanagh would choose to stand with the south, reducing Ulster’s economic viability. “Our northern areas will be so cut up and mutilated that we shall no longer be masters in our own house,” protested the Unionist MP for South Antrim.1 Lloyd George was forced to artful negotiation—and once again the skilful manipulation of words—to reassure the Unionists that the boundary commission would be entirely under their control.

  Yet it was the oath of allegiance to the king that most upset the Dáil delegates.

  During thirteen days of debate the atmosphere in the Dáil became increasingly acrimonious. Some of the delegates kept their tempers under control, but Michael Collins turned the air sulphurous with profanity. From the reporters’ gallery Henry could see expressions of distaste on the faces of Cathal Brugha and Eamon de Valera.

  De Valera, who had gone to great lengths to avoid taking active part in the negotiations, now blamed Griffith and Collins for not referring everything back to him before signing.

  For its part, the Treaty delegation blamed de Valera for his vacillation about decision making and the ambiguity of his instructions, which were more confusing than helpful. Michael Collins—who had shaved off his mustache since returning to Ireland—remarked that the president was a captain who sent his crew to sea, then tried to direct operations from dry land.

  Meanwhile the language of the Treaty confounded the Dáil delegates almost as much as the man in the street. Without clarity it was impossible to argue the terms on their merits. Ancestral passions, long historical memories, personal allegiances, fear of war, and fear of cowardice took over.

  Tom Clarke’s widow wrote to a friend, “Great God, did I ever think I’d live
to see it, to see men who were the bravest, now fooled and blinded by a juggle of words into the belief that this Treaty means a realization of our highest ideals.”2

  By contrast Richard Mulcahy said, “I see no solid spot of ground upon which the Irish people can put its political feet but upon that Treaty.”3

  Constance Markievicz mockingly suggested that Michael Collins should marry Princess Mary and unite the two countries that way.

  Those, like Richard Mulcahy, who supported Arthur Griffith deplored the lack of a constructive alternative to the Treaty from its opponents.

  On one side were the pragmatists; on the other side, the idealists. In the middle was No-Man’s-Land.

  Businessmen, the press, and the Church supported the Treaty. So did majority of the plain people of Ireland. Conditioned by centuries of servitude, they were unwilling to risk losing what had been achieved on a gamble to win it all.

  However, some units of the IRA, particularly the Southern Division, were bitterly opposed. Commanders such as Liam Lynch and Ernie O’Malley thought it a grave mistake not to carry on the fight. Young men who had grown up vowing to die for the Republic agreed with them.

  It was to this side that Eamon de Valera threw his enormous personal prestige. With him he carried the women whose support and devotion had been critical in bringing Ireland this far. Of the six female deputies in the Dáil, four were related to martyred Irish patriots. As Margaret Pearse said, “We will hold what they upheld.”

  LATE one night—far too late for convention—Henry went to Herbert Place. After a long wait, Tilly Burgess answered his knock at the door. The maid had thrown a wrapper over her nightclothes and her eyes were puffy with sleep. “You can’t call on ladies at this hour!” But he insisted.

  When Ella came down to him she was fully dressed, but her night-braided hair was twisted into a knot atop her head and hastily pinned. “Is something wrong?” she asked anxiously.