Mortal Friends, page 12
“That’s nonsense, Eamon, and you know it.”
“Yes. The exact business of politicians. Michael, you must find that middle ground, and then when you come home you must convince the people to stand on it with you. And the army. You’re the only one to sell them less than total victory.”
“I’m for total victory myself, Dev.”
“Well, after a few tumbles on the mat with devious George, you’ll have forgotten the meaning of either of those words.”
“I won’t forget the ancient longing of our people.”
“It’s been for freedom, Mick. Whatever fancy name or political designation you want to give it. Will you go then?”
“You’re certain about yourself?”
“Dead.”
“Then I must go, mustn’t I?”
“Good, Mick, good.”
“But I need . . .” Collins paused. He had to make his statement very carefully. “. . . an assurance, Dev. If what you say is true, it would take both of us to sell a compromise to Ireland now. I want your oath.”
“My oath, Mick? I’d have thought my word would do.”
“You will support whatever we bring back?”
“Well, I can’t say that, can I? How can I endorse what I haven’t read? That’s irrelevant. It’s you I endorse. We’ll push it through together. The state rides on our friendship. You’ve my word, Mick. Is there anything else you need?”
Collins did not reply at once. It seemed to him the wicket had fallen to the wind while he was looking for the pitch. He shrugged. “Yes, there is something else. There is still the matter of ten thousand pounds riding on my head.”
“You’ll be exempt, of course, from arrest.”
“As long as the truce holds. But beyond the police, there’s the average limey thug who’d prefer to bag Wyatt Earp, but . . .”
“You’re right. You should take security.”
“I want Brady. He can double as general factotum, an aide, and so on.”
“Done. I’ll tell Griffith myself.”
“In that case, Dev, excuse me for a moment, would you? Brady was just leaving.”
“Yes. I want to summon Lynch down here, anyway. You must be briefed thoroughly on all the traffic to date. We’ll meet after lunch.”
Collins dashed out of De Valera’s office. He was certain that Brady was en route to the railway depot at Beresford Place. If he hurried he could catch him.
But Brady was sitting on the steps of the Mansion House and Michael Collins nearly fell over him.
“You’re here!” Collins said.
“If we left it at that . . .”—Brady shrugged and raised his brows—“I knew you’d want a chance to apologize.”
Collins remained standing, which made it awkward for Brady, who remained seated. He had to crane his neck to see Collins.
“Well, you’re lucky I didn’t step on you.”
“As England said to Ireland.”
“Don’t provoke me, amico.” Collins grinned. “I’m no Quaker.”
“And I’m no bug to be squashed. Sit down, General.”
Collins leaned on Brady, settled himself and sighed. “No, Colman,” he said. “It’s ‘Excellency.’”
“Since when is the Minister of Finance ‘Excellency’?”
“Since he became Envoy Plenipotentiary.”
“What?”
“Oh, boy! Penitentiary! I’m going to London.”
“You can’t be serious!” Colman’s face was lit with alarm.
“I am. I’m taking Dev’s place.”
“I don’t get it. How can the president possibly forgo the trip?”
“One look at him would answer your question. They’ve worn him down. He’s afraid of what he’ll concede. Terrified of it. He’s whipped.”
“But what will he say?”
“That he’s too strongly identified with the extreme position to negotiate in good faith.”
“And you’re not? Damn it, Mick, you’re the one that’s got criminal charges, not him. They’ll hang you.”
“I’m a free man for as long as the truce holds.”
“And fair game for every Brit bantam, castoff soldier, fusilier, grenadier that sees a place at Westminster for the man that kills Michael Collins. You can’t go!”
“Not alone.”
“Not at all.”
“If Dev doesn’t go, I must. That’s clear. Tweedledum or Tweedledee.”
“Mick, please . . .”
“No, Colman!” Collins fixed his gaze across Dawson Street on a man who was shoveling up the horse dung from the curbside. He would sell it to housewives for garden fertilizer. Collins let a beat fall before he said, simply and softly, “You please.”
“Did you arrange this to keep me . . . ?”
Collins cut him off with his stare, which said, Don’t you dare!
This was not their earlier argument at all, thought Brady. This was Mick putting his neck in the noose. What could Colman do? Stand aside and say Ecce homo?
“I’m with you, Commandant. You know that.”
“Thanks, amico.”
“But De Valera. He wouldn’t duck the glory of peacemaking unless . . .”
“There’s to be no glory.”
“Exactly. I don’t trust the position you’re in.”
“You don’t trust Dev?” Collins thought of the fallen wicket. The pitch he never saw.
“You don’t trust Dev?” he repeated.
“I didn’t say that, Mick.”
“We get paid to suspect bloody London,” Collins said. “If we can’t trust Dublin, well, it’s eyes front, present arms, forward march, and shoot yourself.”
And so Michael Collins, accompanied by Colman Brady, joined the Irish negotiating group.
The Articles of Agreement that the entire Irish delegation would sign were, as De Valera anticipated, a terrible compromise. The British refused to yield on the partition between Northern Ireland and the South. They tried to soften that stand by guaranteeing that, as soon as Protestant citizens were either reassured or resettled, the “essential union” would be accomplished. The British insisted on their right to maintain a naval base in the harbor at Cobh, south of Cork. When they agreed at last to make annual payments for the use of the port facility the Irish chose to take that as the token of obeisance they sought. But the most explosive issue of all had to do with continued Irish allegiance to the Crown. The British insisted repeatedly that they required it. But even on that issue a compromise was achieved. When the Irish proposed that they swear “allegiance” to their own constitution and “faithfulness” to the King, the British accepted the formula.
Collins himself would never have signed the Articles—he was the first to do so—but for a private meeting he had with Lloyd George at 10 Downing Street. Collins brought Brady with him to take notes on the conversation. The Prime Minister’s Chancellor, Lord Birkenhead, was also present.
“You are the man, General, the only one who has it in his power now to avert the horrors of immediate and terrible war.” When Lloyd George imparted this ultimatum, the bones of his jaw seemed to click. He was a man of the sort children draw when they draw prime ministers, tall, thin, perfect. He seemed naked without his top hat. When he said the word war he laid into it, extending it by six r’s and letting the bass reverberations of his voice conjure up for his listeners all of those “horrors” he was promising. And it seemed, as he looked toward Collins, more a promise than a threat.
Collins was unmoved. He knew the horrors of war better than Lloyd George did. He did not need histrionics to make him understand what was at stake.
“Mr. Prime Minister,” Collins said coolly, “our subject is not war. Yet. Our subject is the treaty. It is my responsibility to refuse to sign it until . . .”
“England has given away everything!” Lloyd George broke in, “I tell you, man!”
“No! Listen to me! Until I am convinced that the treaty in its actual terms and its implications offers all that Ireland can gain at this time and at least enough to be accepted by her people.”
“Well, what is the problem, then?”
“I want the word Republic.”
“And I want the word Dominion. So where are we?”
“Right. Frankly, I don’t care what it’s called, but I want guarantees in writing, in the document, of freedom. The extent to which you clear out of Ireland is the extent to which we shall be free.”
“Let me ask you something, General. In your opinion, is Canada free?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that is exactly the arrangement we propose for Ireland.”
“Why not say so then in the treaty? ‘Free like Canada’?”
“I can’t. The Parliament would reject it.”
“The Parliament wants us ‘free like Scotland. Like Wales.’”
“Yes. We must finesse them. I need your help.”
“I want it in writing.”
“There is a fog around the language of the treaty. Allegiance. Faithfulness. Republic. Dominion. External Association. Community of Nations. No one knows what any of it means. And that is how you and I want it. You and I know that Ireland, by virtue of this treaty, will be free to become whatever nation she chooses to be. That is as it should be. England concedes, General! But don’t force her to grovel! She will not! Take this treaty and go through the door it opens. That is all it is: a door into a new room. Don’t ask us or yourselves to define in advance the room’s dimensions.”
Lloyd George was speaking with formidable passion. He had not spoken of the treaty in such a way before. In public he played a very tight hand. Collins was impressed. Perhaps they had conceded everything. Perhaps the difficulties over words and phrases were insignificant. That the treaty opened the door to freedom was true, even if it did not articulate all that a free state would be. But Lloyd George had just conceded more than ever before; Ireland like Canada. A simple comparison. Canada could do whatever it chose. Ireland’s immunity could never be challenged without challenging the immunity of Canada. That was a security not to be lightly rejected, and certainly not in favor of “terrible and immediate war.”
Brady was watching Collins, reading his mind. Ireland like Canada, yes. But Colman Brady didn’t like it. Canada had three thousand miles of ocean as a guarantor of its status. All Ireland would have would be the words and phrases of this treaty. “Be careful, Mick!” Brady signaled.
Collins said sternly, “The Irish people must have proof that the treaty really means something. I want the release of all interned Irish prisoners.”
“Done,” Lloyd George said.
“Including Sean McGrath.” McGrath was in for murder without political status.
“Done.”
Collins turned and looked at Brady. “What can we do now,” he seemed to ask with a shrug, “but exercise our new habit and trust the bastards?”
And so they did.
At two-twenty on the morning of Tuesday, December sixth, the Articles of Agreement between Great Britain and Ireland were signed. As Michael Collins put his hand to the treaty he said to Lord Birkenhead, “I have signed my own death warrant.” The Chancellor thought the man’s grim joke inappropriate and thought again how relieved he was that these dreary and mean Irishmen were going home at last.
Collins and Brady went to Mass together at five o’clock that morning. Neither of them had ever felt so religiously committed, so Catholic, as since they’d come to London. The weight of worry and responsibility was giving way to gratitude. Perhaps Ireland’s long night was over. The prisoners would be released, the English soldiers withdrawn, the government completely Irish. By the time the Mass was over the two friends had released the brakes on their nerves, their emotions, their joy. It was done! Ireland would be free! They were suddenly jubilant leaving the church, and they danced their way into the street, holding each other.
8
Colman laughed out loud, laughed with delight.
“What?” Nellie asked, pulling the blanket over her bare shoulder.
“George M. Cohan.” He whistled a tune.
“Sing it,” she begged.
“How you gonna keep ’em down on the farm —” he sang pathetically, but she loved it “— after they’ve seen Paree?”
“Once they’ve seen the farm, you mean.”
“Just show ’em London. They’ll be back.” He hugged her.
“Briefly.”
“I beg your pardon. I’ve been home more than a month, with no plans to leave.”
“But you wake up singing ‘Paree.’”
“It’s a long way to Tipperary . . . ,” he sang.
“You haven’t seemed to fit the place. You work without . . .”
“The slow horse reaches the mill.”
“You weren’t slow before.”
“Hard churning makes bad butter.”
“And a good beginning is half the work. Don’t be quoting proverbs to me.”
“You’ve a sharp eye for my discontent, woman.”
“A blunt eye would do as well. I suppose you’re too important for farm labor now.”
“Perhaps I am.”
“There’s more dignity, I presume, in carrying Michael Collins’s suitcase.”
“Nellie Brady!”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re not. You’ll take a crack at me for every day I was gone.” He hugged her, and she pushed her head up under his chin, inviting him to stroke her with it. He did. He touched her softly and repeatedly, then lifted her face so that he could look at her.
“The point of a rush,” he said, “would draw blood from your cheek.”
“One of your whiskers will do.”
He rubbed her lightly with his chin again.
But suddenly she rolled away from him, showing her back.
“Nellie, what’s wrong? Tell me.”
“It’s too soon,” she said into the pillow she crushed at her mouth.
“What’s too soon? What do you mean?”
“To be certain . . .” She turned back, showing him her burning eyes. “I’ve a feeling I’m . . .” She crushed herself against him, weeping.
“Pregnant?”
“Yes.”
“But why the tears?” He wiped her cheeks. “That would be wonderful.”
“It makes me feel all the more . . .” She could barely bring herself to say it. “Alone.”
“Nellie, I’m home. For keeps.”
“Colman, what’s horrible and devastating—I don’t believe you. You’ve left so often. It’s so . . .”
“I swear it, Nell. The same oath I gave to them I give to you. The very same.” He waited for that to have its effect on her.
It did. “I won’t hold you to it,” she said, sniffing, “if I’m not . . .”
“Don’t be a fool. I’m home for you. Not for your belly. Whether it’s empty or full.” He ran his hand down over her navel. She raised her mouth to him and he kissed her.
“When will you know?”
“Very soon. Very.” She pressed his hand down on herself and they kissed again.
The day that Nellie knew for certain she was pregnant was the same day the terrible news came from London.
The Irish Independent for Wednesday, January 2, carried the blatant headline “P.M. Says Ireland Capitulates!” The news story described a speech Lloyd George had made to the House of Commons on the occasion of the start of the Irish Dail’s official consideration of the treaty. Lloyd George declared, “The representatives of Dublin yielded on every point of the English agenda, including and especially so, the Oath of Allegiance. Every Irishman’s representative in the Dail must swear it, and the King collects his due each time over.”
“The son of a bitch!” Brady cried, slamming the paper down on the table. “The lying son of a bitch! It was ‘faithfulness,’ not ‘allegiance’! Bloody goddamn ‘faithfulness’!”
“What’s the difference?” Nellie asked in all innocence.
Colman turned on her. “What do you mean ‘What’s the difference?’ The difference is we negotiated in good faith, which that bastard is going to exploit to assure the humiliation of Ireland.” Colman opened the paper again to reread the article. Shaking his head, engrossed, gone from her, he said out loud but to himself, “They’ll kill Mick and Dev with this. They’ll kill them!”
Brady was half right.
Lloyd George’s gloating convinced those who called themselves separatists that with acceptance of the treaty all hope of gaining the full measure of Irish freedom would be forfeit. They denounced the English concessions as bribes to defer the real freedom—a declaration of independence entire from the United Kingdom and the Commonwealth. They had taken an oath to the Republic, and if war was the only alternative to the Republic, then it must be faced. Those who sought to put that war away from Ireland were traitors.
“De Valera Denounces Treaty!” the headline blared a week later.
Brady couldn’t believe it. He read the story in shock and rage. In his speeches before the Dail De Valera sided with the separatists against Collins, who was cast in the role of appeaser and sellout. Something clicked in Colman. Betrayal from Lloyd George was one thing. But De Valera! “Eyes front,” Mick had said, “present arms, forward march, and shoot yourself!”
“Nellie,” he said, “they’re killing Mick. They’re killing him.”
Colman was white as bleached bone, flat up against the wall in the kitchen. The mid-January freeze was on and he was shivering. She would have gone to him and held him. But she heard him clearly. She knew before he did what he was saying. She felt like wrung rags. She knew she should eat something. But the thought of food stirred the bile in her throat.
