“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.”
“Thank you, Annie,” he whispered. “I don’t deserve your good will. I know that. Because of me, Thomas is rarely home. Because of me, he’s dodging bullets and putting out fires he didn’t start.”
“Thomas loves you,” I said. “He believes in you. We both do.”
I felt his eyes on my face and met his gaze, unflinching.
“I’m not wrong about much, lass, but I was wrong about you,” he murmured. “Tommy has a timeless soul. Timeless souls need soulmates. I’m glad he found his.”
My heart quaked, and my eyes filled. I stopped my mindless stacking and pressed a hand to my waist, clinging to my composure. Guilt rose in my chest. Guilt and indecision mixed with dread and despair. Every day, I struggled between my responsibility to warn and my desire to shield, and every day I tried to deny the things I knew.
“I have to tell you something, Michael. I need you to listen to me, and I need you to believe me, if not for your sake, then for Thomas’s,” I said, the words like ash in my throat, like Eoin’s remains on the lake, billowing around me. But Michael was already shaking his head, refusing me, as if he knew where such words would lead.
“Do you know that the day I was born,” he said, “my mother worked up to the very moment of delivery? My sister Mary saw that she was in pain, that there was something happening, but my mother never complained or rested. There was work that needed to be done. And she kept moving.” His eyes never left my face.
“I was her eighth child, the youngest, and she delivered me during the night, all by herself. My sister told me she was up again almost immediately, not missing a step. My mother worked like that until the day she died. She was an unstoppable force. She loved her country. Loved her family.”
Michael took a deep breath. Clearly speaking of her still hurt him. I understood. I couldn’t think of my grandfather without pain. “She died when I was sixteen, and I was heartbroken. But now? Now I’m grateful she’s gone. I wouldn’t want her to worry about me. I wouldn’t want her to have to choose sides, and I wouldn’t want her to outlive me.”
My heart roared in my ears, and I had to look away. I knew that what happened here, in this room, had essentially already happened. My presence was not a variation of history but part of it. The pictures had proven that. My grandfather himself was a witness to the fact. Anything I said or didn’t say was already part of the fabric of events; I believed that.
But I knew how Michael Collins died.
I knew where it occurred.
I knew when.
It was something I’d kept from Thomas, and something he’d never asked. Knowing would only make life unbearable for him, and I kept the knowledge close. But guarding the secret made me feel like a coconspirator. It gnawed in my belly and haunted my dreams. I didn’t know who was responsible, and I couldn’t protect Michael Collins from a faceless foe—his killer had never been named—but I could warn him. I had to.
“Don’t tell me, Annie,” Michael ordered, divining my internal struggle. “When it comes, it will come. I know it. I feel it. I’ve heard the banshee crying in my dreams. Death has been dogging my footsteps for a long time. I’d rather not know when the bitch will overtake me.”
“Ireland needs you,” I implored.
“Ireland needed James Connolly and Tom Clarke. She needed Seán Mac Diarmada and Declan Gallagher. We all have our part to play and our burdens to carry. When I’m gone, there will be others.”
I could only shake my head. There would be others. But never again would there be another Michael Collins. Men like Collins, men like Thomas, and men like my grandfather were irreplaceable.
“It weighs on you, doesn’t it? Knowing things ye can’t prevent?” he murmured.
I nodded, unable to hold back the tears. He must have seen the desperation on my face, the confession on the tip of my tongue. I wanted so badly to tell him, to unburden myself. He stood abruptly and approached me, shaking his head, his finger raised in warning. He pressed it to my lips and leaned into me, holding my gaze.
“Not a word, lass,” he shushed. “Not a word. Let the fates unravel as they must. Do this for me, please. I don’t want to live counting the days I have left.”
I nodded, and he straightened, tentatively removing his finger as though he feared I wouldn’t hold my tongue. For a moment we studied each other, arguing silently, wills warring and walls rising, before we both exhaled, having reached an agreement. I brushed at the tears on my cheeks, oddly absolved.
“You have a look about you, Anne. Does Tommy know?” Michael asked softly, the tumult clearing from his expression. I stepped back in surprise.
“W-what?” I stammered. I wasn’t even sure myself.
He smiled broadly. “Ah, I thought so. I’ll keep your secret if you keep mine. Deal?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about!” I huffed, still reeling.
“That’s the spirit. Deny. Deflect. Refute,” he whispered conspiratorially, and he winked. “It’s always worked for me.”
He turned to leave the room, but not before he snatched another slice of turkey and a hunk of bread from the basket, his appetite plainly restored by his teasing.
“I’m guessin’ Tommy already knows, though. He doesn’t miss much. Plus, it’s written all over your face. You have roses in your cheeks and a sparkle in your eye. Congratulations, lass. I couldn’t be happier if it were mine,” he teased, winking again.
Michael Collins will go to Cork on August 22, 1922. Those closest to him will beg him to reconsider, to remain in Dublin, but he won’t listen. He will die in an ambush in a little valley they call Béal na mBláth—the mouth of flowers.
I wrote of what was to come, every detail, every theory I could remember about Michael’s death: 8.22.22; 8.22.22. The date had become a pulse in my head, the title of a terrible story, and once a story consumed me, I had to write it down. It was my compromise with Michael Collins. I would stay silent as the day approached, just as he’d asked me to do. I would keep the words in my mouth, bitter and brackish. But I would not, could not, be quiet in the end. When the day came, I would tell Thomas. I would tell Joe. I would lock Michael Collins in a room, tie him up, and put a gun to his head to keep him from his fate. These pages would be my insurance, my backup plan. Even if something happened to me, they would speak for me, and Michael’s story would have a new ending.
I wrote until my hand cramped, unaccustomed to composing without keys beneath my fingers. It had been a long time since I’d done any serious writing freehand. My penmanship was atrocious, but the action soothed me like nothing else could.
When I’d written all I could remember, I folded the sheets into an envelope, sealed it shut, and slid it into my dresser drawer.
On April 14 in Dublin, the Four Courts building on the quay side of the River Liffey was taken by anti-Treaty forces and declared the new republican headquarters. Several buildings along O’Connell Street as well as Kilmainham Gaol were also occupied. Raids were being made on Free State stores and munitions, the goods stockpiled in the occupied buildings. It was the beginning of the protracted end.
“Ya could’na given me some warning about this, eh Annie?” Michael complained, and Thomas shot him a look of such censure that Michael wilted and ran his hands through his hair.
“I’m sorry, lass. I forget myself sometimes, don’t I?”
Michael left Garvagh Glebe in a rush, his convoy, including the shrapnel-wounded soldier, trailing behind. Thomas debated remaining at home but at the last moment packed a bag and prepared to follow, worried that a battle over the Four Courts might ensue, and his skills would be needed.
Eoin sulked, sad to see the excitement end and our visitors leave. He begged Thomas to take him along, to take us both along, but Thomas refused, promising he’d be home in a few days. The occupation of the Four Courts was an escalation between the two sides that promised bloodshed, and I couldn’t remember enough of the particulars to reassure him. I simply knew a battle would break out. The Four Courts building would sustain an explosion caused by the stolen munition stores, and men would die. Good men. I just couldn’t remember the timeline or the technicalities.
“Michael’s right, you know,” I said to Thomas as he gathered his things. “I’ve been preoccupied. Some dates are like constant lights in my head. Some details won’t leave me alone. But there are other things, other events, that I should remember and don’t. I’ll do better,” I mumbled.
“Mick lashes out at those he loves. Consider it a sign of trust and affection.” Thomas sighed.
“Is that why you looked at him as though you wanted to box his ears?”
“I don’t care how much he loves you or trusts you, he will mind his manners.”
“So fierce, Dr. Smith.”