What the Wind Knows(95)

As February rolled into March and March into April, the crack in Ireland’s leadership became a chasm in the country from which chaos climbed. Hell nipped at her heels. Raids on banks and outposts were the order of the day as the guns and money needed to overthrow the new government became paramount. The newspapers were ransacked or overrun, and the propaganda machine began in earnest. Anti-Treaty brigades of the IRA—brigades that behaved more like conquering warlords—began invading entire towns. In Limerick, where command of the city meant control of the River Shannon bridges and dominance over the west and the south, both pro-and anti-Treaty forces were burrowed in. The anti-Treaty IRA commandeered barracks newly evacuated by British troops, set up their headquarters in hotels, and occupied government buildings. It would take force to dislodge them, and no one wanted to use force.

On April 13, Michael spoke to a thousand people in Sligo at a pro-Treaty rally only to be rushed off the stage as fighting broke out in the crowd and shots rang out from a window overlooking the square. He was shoved into the back of an armored car, Thomas on his heels, and whisked away to Garvagh Glebe while order was restored. He spent the night in Dromahair, two dozen Free State soldiers surrounding the house to protect him while he planned his next move. We sat at the dining room table, the remnants of dinner all around us. Brigid was in her room, and Eoin was playing marbles in the adjoining parlor with Fergus, who showed him no mercy but a good deal of patience.

“A British ship off the coast of Cork was seized by anti-Treaty forces. The ship was filled with arms. Thousands of guns are now in the hands of the men who want to destabilize the Free State. What in the hell was a ship full of arms doing off the coast of Cork? The British are behind this,” Michael said, rising to his feet to circle the table, his belly full, his nerves taut.

“The British?” Thomas asked, surprised. “Why?”

Thomas stopped in front of the window, peering out into the darkness, only to have Fergus call out, demanding he move.

“If I can’t pull this off, Thomas, if Ireland can’t pull this off, the British will say they have no choice but to return to restore order. The agreement will be void. And Ireland will slide right back into British hands. So they quietly pull our strings behind the scenes. I sent Churchill a cable, accusing him of collusion. It may not be him. Or Lloyd George. But there is collusion. I have no doubt.”

“What did Churchill say?” Thomas gasped.

“He denied it outright. And he asked if there is anyone in Ireland willing to fight for the Free State.”

Silence fell over the room. Michael returned to his chair and sat, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. Thomas gazed at me, his eyes tragic, his throat working.

“I fought the British, Tommy,” Michael said. “I killed and ambushed and outmaneuvered. I was the Minister of Mayhem. But I don’t have the bloody stomach for this. I don’t want to fight my own countrymen. I keep trying to make deals with the devil—and now the devil has too many faces. I’m capitulating there, making promises over here, trying to keep it all from falling apart, and it’s not working.”

“Fighting for the Free State means killing for the Free State,” Thomas said, his countenance grave. “There are good men on every side of this. And good women. Emotions are high. Tempers are hot. But underneath it all, no one wants to fire on their own. So we scramble and plot and dig in and argue, but we don’t want to kill each other.”

“It’s a helluva lot easier to kill when you hate the people you’re shooting at,” Michael admitted heavily. “But even Arthur Griffith, the man who is all about peaceful resistance, says force is inevitable.”

Arthur Griffith was scheduled to speak on Sunday at the Sligo Town Hall with other pro-Treaty politicians. Considering what had just happened during his own speech, Michael had already arranged for Free State troops to be sent in to keep the peace and allow Sunday’s meeting to take place. The provisional government had passed a law with Royal Assent that stated that a general election would be held before June 30. Both pro-and anti-Treaty supporters were scrambling to connect with—or intimidate—voters.

We were interrupted by Robbie, who was hovering at the dining room door, his boots muddy, his hat in his hands, and his coat misted with rain.

“Doc, apparently one of the boys caught some shrapnel during the shooting in Sligo. He bandaged himself up and didn’t say anything, but now he’s sick. I thought you might take a look.”

“Bring him around to the clinic, Robbie,” Thomas ordered, throwing his napkin on the table and rising.

“And tell the lad that it’s the height of stupidity to ignore a wound when there’s a doctor on the premises,” Michael groused, shaking his head wearily.

“Already did, Mr. Collins,” Robbie answered. He saluted Michael, nodded at me, and followed Thomas from the room.

“I wanna watch, Doc!” Eoin cried, abandoning Fergus and the marbles for a front-row seat in the surgery. Thomas didn’t refuse him, and Fergus took the opportunity to make his rounds.

Michael and I were left alone, and I stood and began stacking plates, needing something to occupy my head and my hands. Michael sighed wearily, but he didn’t rise.

“I’ve brought chaos into your home. Again. It follows me wherever I go,” he said wearily.

“There will never be a day when you are not welcome at Garvagh Glebe,” I answered. “We are honored to have you here.”