‘’Tis even worse than fighting the British! Now we’re a land divided against ourselves.’
‘Well, at leastwe’renot divided. Now then, try and keep calm and see to that babe of ours over there. She’s wanting her breakfast.’
As Finn doled out some porridge from the pot sitting warm on the hearth, Nuala swept up six-month-old Maggie and placed her in the wooden feeding chair Finn had made during the Easter holidays.
Maggie smiled at her, which melted her heart. She was a beautiful babe – the irony being that she’d inherited her Auntie Hannah’s red hair, and was the spit of her.
‘Pass me her porridge, Finn.’
Finn did so, hoping that their daughter would act as a calming influence on his distraught wife.
‘So now, I’ll be seeing you both later,’ he said and, placing a kiss on the top of the dark head of his wife and the red-gold of his daughter’s, he left the cottage.
‘I’ll tell you, Maggie,’ said Nuala, ‘if that sister of mine comes round here crowing about the pro-Treaty lot winning the election, I’ll be having to slap her hard.’
Maggie gurgled and opened her tiny mouth for more porridge.
‘Maybe later we’ll walk across to see your Uncle Christy, will we? He’ll be feeling it like I am.’
Just as she’d laid Maggie down for a sleep, Christy arrived on her doorstep. ‘Have you heard the news?’ he asked as he walked in.
‘I have indeed. Maggie’s asleep with a tummy full of porridge, so shall we take a glass outside?’
‘Of what?’
‘Whatever you want.’ Nuala lifted up a bottle of whiskey, as Christy took his arm from behind his back to raise a bottle of porter.
‘I brought my own,’ he said and followed her outside into the garden. ‘Thought we might be needing it after what’s happened.’
‘Remember walls have ears,’ Nuala whispered nervously.
‘Unless poor Mrs Grady next door will rise from the grave we both saw her buried in three days ago, I’d be thinking we’re all right.’ Christy gave her a weak smile. ‘If we’re worrying about that, then we really are back to the old days.’
‘I’d say with the pro-Treaty lot winning the election, we are.’
‘Yes,’ Christy agreed. ‘There’s fellows in the pub already this morning, so I’ll not be here long, but they are singing the same song as us, and it isn’t in support of Mick Collins. There’s a lot around here who’d fight on for the republic we dreamt of. I’ve been hearing tales that Protestants round these parts are already packing and heading up to the North. There’s talk of closing the border.’
‘We won’t be allowed into part of our own country?’ Nuala gasped as she took a sip of whiskey.
‘Ah now, I don’t know how ’twill work, but many will go, just in case.’
‘But what about the Catholics living across the border in the North?’
‘They’ll be trying to come south if they can, but like our own family, many will have land they farm to survive. What a bloody mess it all is.’ Christy shook his head and knocked back a great gulp of porter straight from the bottle.
‘How will we ever start a war against ourselves? Would you be willing to fight your friends? Your kin? I... don’t know.’ Nuala put her head in her hands. ‘With Daddy being a Fenian, he’d continue the fight for a republic to the death, and Mammy would support him as she always has. Fergus would too, but Hannah...’
‘Don’t be too hard on her, Nuala. She has to stand by her husband, and there’s many around here that were voting for peace, not war, whatever the consequences.’
‘We had peace before with the British ruling us, and where did that get us? We were so close to being free and we lost so many doing it. Surely we owe it to those who died to continue the fight?’
‘Even though ’tis an unbearable thought, I’d agree, and ’tis one we volunteers will all be debating the next time the Third West Cork Brigade meet. Sean Hales won’t be present – he’s already made it obvious he’s pro-Treaty, the traitor! He’s even in Dublin working with Mick Collins to recruit a national army. Tom Hales will stand with us and support fighting on.’
‘How can Sean Hales support the Treaty, when his own brother Tom was beaten and tortured by the British?!’ Nuala raged.
‘Look now, we’re not there yet. Try not to worry, Nuala. Mick Collins doesn’t want war against his own just as much as we don’t. Let’s see if he can work his magic politically, and we’ll take it from there.’
It was only ten days later that newspapers reported that the Dublin anti-Treaty headquarters, set up in the Four Courts with Éamon de Valera at its head, had been attacked by Michael Collins’s new National Army.
