Chapter Six
A Moment In Time
The Four Courts, Inns Quay, Dublin, Irish Free State, 4am, 28th June 1922.
Notebook and pencil in hand, keeping low behind an improvised barricade made up of a couple of wrecked army trucks off which, from time to time, the odd desultory bullet pinged like an angry hornet, causing him and those others around him to instinctively duck their heads, Tom Branson was crouching down, keeping out of sight, just beyond the end of the bridge.
Gazing intently across to the far bank of the river, he knew that there too, the view had been somewhat similar, with the buildings on the opposite side clearly visible to the naked eye. However, from the photographs he had seen since, instead of the imposing, ornate, granite mass opposite, he knew also that there had been a huddle of rather nondescript structures, among them the three-storey bulk of Schiller's delicatessen occupying a prominent corner site overlooking both the bridge and the river and which, for all he knew, did so still.
It had been summer back then too; what, in fact, turned out to be a blisteringly hot and sweltering day. However, there the similarity ended, for, the waters of the river he had in his mind's eye, albeit only fleetingly, had in fact been brown, their flow in the intense heat of mid-summer desultory, indeed little more than an inconsequential trickle; unlike the the constant silvery flood now coursing softly before him in the grey light of the breaking dawn.
Only the date was the same: 28th June, the significance of which, with his love of history and politics, was not lost on Tom.
Eight years ago to this very day, if not the hour, far away on the banks of another river, in a hot, dusty town in the Balkans had been fired the shot which had been heard around the world: the shooting dead of Archduke Franz Ferdinand and his wife Sophie, whose assassination by Gavrilo Princip, had led inexorably to the outbreak of the Great War.
Even now, after all this time, Tom could still recall, what had happened several weeks later, when, at that long gone August garden party held on the well-manicured lawns of Downton Abbey, his aristocratic future father-in-law, Robert Crawley fifth earl of Grantham had brought the day's hitherto relaxed proceedings to an abrupt halt and in a clipped, precise, measured tone had announced to one and all that Great Britain was now at war with Germany.
"I don't suppose..."
At this particular remembrance, Tom chuckled softly to himself, drawing a curious look from one of the nervous young soldiers kneeling beside him behind the barricade. Close to, he could see the droplets of sweat beading both the boy's brow and upper lip; saw him swallow hard. Why, he looked scarcely old enough to be even shaving let alone in uniform and fighting for his country. Jaysus! In perhaps little more than a dozen or so years it could be Danny kneeling there beside him. At the very thought of that frightening prospect, Tom's heart gave a sudden lurch. At home in Blackrock, safe and sound, well out of harm's way, Sybil and their children would thankfully still be sleeping soundly in their beds.
"How old are you, boy?" Tom asked softly.
"Sir?"
"It doesn't matter". He smiled wanly at the young soldier, trying to convey in his expression some form of wordless reassurance. Then, briefly, he let his mind drift back once more to the distant past.
What was it that he had been going to say to Sybil, before Mrs. Hughes had interrupted him? Little more than a week ago, lying in his arms in their bed after making love, Sybil had taxed him with that very question. Tom's brows knitted, his forehead furrowed. He had no idea; none whatsoever. After all it had been a lifetime ago, before the world went mad and toppled over the precipice and into a world war. Even so, the particular memory caused Tom to permit himself the luxury of a brief, ironic smile. That earnest, softly spoken Irish chauffeur and the pretty, aristocratic young girl in the pale sprig print muslin dress were now as much a part of history as the long dead heir to the now defunct throne of the vanished Austro-Hungarian Empire.
For this was not 1914.
The river was not the Miljacka.
This was not the Latin Bridge.
This was not Sarajevo the capital of what then had been the distant province of Bosnia-Herzegovina, at the time part of the sprawling territories of the Austro-Hungarian Empire.
On this particular summer's morn, there were no carefree, cheering, smiling, flag waving crowds as there had been then lining the banks of the Miljacka river, crowding in their thousands into Sarajevo, to mark the State Visit of the Heir to the Austro-Hungarian throne, singularly unaware of course of what was about to happen.
For this was 1922.
The river was the Liffey.
This was the Richmond Bridge.
This was Dublin, the capital city of the newly created Irish Free State.
And, at this early hour, sick of war, ashen, pale-faced, with heads bowed and now scurrying for whatever cover they could find, the handful of people here in Dublin, down by the waters of the Liffey, were only too well aware of what was about to occur.
Tom looked at his watch; it was still barely 4am in the morning but even in the translucent pearl grey light of early dawn, across the Liffey the domed bulk of The Four Courts loomed large.
Of course, Tom knew the richly decorated interior of the building well; as a journalist he had attended and covered trials here on several occasions over the past couple of years. Begun in 1786 and completed in 1802 the warren of buildings had once housed the four courts of Chancery, the King's Bench, the Exchequer and the Common Pleas, by now merged into the High Court of Ireland. With its enormous central dome sited above a great circular hall, its front portico composed of six soaring Corinthian columns, the ornate pediment above topped by a carved statue of Moses on its apex, flanked by others representing Justice, Mercy, Wisdom and Authority and its ornate flanking wings, notwithstanding the fact it had been built under British rule, Tom would have been the first to admit that it was truly magnificent.
Crouching close to the position held by the National Army here on Winetavern Street at the southern end of Richmond Bridge, there would, thought Tom, shortly be nothing remotely resembling justice, mercy or wisdom. In the circumstances, it would, he reflected, have been more apt had the carved statues atop the front portico of the Four Courts been those of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse: Conquest, War, Famine and Death.
For, since April of this year, along with several other locations, including the grim edifice that was Kilmainham Gaol and where Peadar had breathed his last, the immense complex of buildings over there on the north bank of the River Liffey had been occupied by Republican forces led by Rory o'Connor opposed to the terms of the Anglo-Irish Treaty.
Thereafter, here in Dublin, over the last couple of months, an uneasy stalemate had prevailed, with the forces of the new National Army which remained loyal to the fledgling government of the Free State making no attempt to dislodge the Republicans from the several locations here in the city which they had first seized and then heavily fortified, while both sides waited to see whether or not the elections to the Dáil would bring an end to the impasse.
However, in this regard, the General Election which had been held here in the Free State this very month, had achieved precisely nothing. For despite the pro-Treaty Sinn Fein winning the largest number of votes, Ireland remained bitterly and hopelessly divided between those who supported and those who opposed the terms of the Anglo-Irish Treaty; a division which continued to manifest itself in the Dáil, in the neophyte National Army, in Dublin, in Cork and in all the towns and villages scattered up and down the length and breadth of the country. Something had to give and now it had with an incident that had occurred but a few days ago, not here in Dublin but over in London, on the doorstep of an elegant town house in fashionable Eaton Place.
From his vantage point, Tom could easily make out the equally hastily erected improvised fortifications surrounding the Four Courts on the other side of the river: the entanglements of barbed wire, the sandbags, the trenches, along with the barricaded doors and windows.
"Good people are dying, are going to die, on both sides,Tom".
Sybil had spoken more or less those self same words to him on that summer morning when, two years ago, in June 1920, he had told her of his intention to go south, to Cork, to cover for the Indy, what was happening down there in Munster in the far south of Ireland during the War of Independence, what others were now calling the Tan War, in recognition of the brutality and lawlessness of the Black and Tans.
At the thought of darling Sybil, Tom sighed heavily. He had never told her what they had done to him while he and the others were being held in that abandoned, isolated police barracks in County Cork; could not bring himself to talk of that, not even to her, especially not to her. But despite his unwillingness to speak of the cruelties he had suffered, he sensed that somehow Sybil knew all the same. She had been so loving, so patient, so understanding; had calmed and soothed him when he had awoken, soaked in sweat, terrified, in the fastness of the night, believing himself once again to be in the clutches of the Tans.
"There are things to tell me, my darling, aren't there?" she had asked of him one morning after his nightmares had been particularly vivid. But even though he knew Sybil spoke the plain, simple truth, lying there in her arms, safe from all harm, Tom could not bring himself to recount what had happened; not then, not now, perhaps not ever. Gradually though, as time passed, the painful memories he carried with him had begun to fade, although for now they still lurked there in the darkest, deepest recesses of his mind waiting to pounce. But Tom knew only too well that it did not do to dwell on the past. And yet, paradoxically, on this bright June morning, whether or not he wished it thus, it was to the past that he found himself returning again and again.
Six years ago, in 1916, during the Easter Rising, a large swathe of the centre of Dublin had been destroyed and laid waste when, in order to flush the Irish rebels out of the General Post Office and other locations which they had occupied, the British Army resorted to the use of heavy artillery here in the very heart of the city. The loss of life on both sides had been appalling and the damage widespread. And now, it seemed history was about to repeat itself. Did we, Tom wondered, never, ever learn from our past mistakes? Obviously not.
The sound of a motor now approaching the barricade from the other end of the street and at speed caused Tom to turn his head. He watched impassively as, brakes squealing, the heavy Crossley staff car pulled to a sudden stand close to the buildings on the west side of the street and also well out of rifle range. The rear doors opened and several officers in the uniform of the new National Army clambered out. Keeping low and in the lee of the neighbouring premises, cautiously, they made their way along the street, over to the barricade, among their number a tall man who, on seeing Tom, raised his right hand in friendly salutation.
For his part, Michael Collins, Commander-in-Chief of the newly formed Irish National Army would have liked very much to know what it was that Tom Branson was thinking during this silent sunrise vigil down by the Liffey on the eve of battle. On reflection, no, that wasn't strictly true. Collins knew perfectly well what Tom would be thinking. Tommy who was one of the few truly decent men he had met and who was both blessed and cursed with a conscience as broad and deep as the Liffey. Collins now smiled; strode briskly over to where Tom was now standing and touched the brim of his cap with his swagger stick.
"My, my, Tommy, you're up early for sure".
"You too, Michael. A fine pair of insomniacs, the two of us". Tom smiled his familiar lopsided grin.
Collins nodded, watched impassively as Tom turned back to survey, with seeming indifference, the scene of military preparations now being made for the launching of a direct military assault on the Four Courts.
"Tommy, I do want you to know, I have no choice in this".
"Michael, there's always a choice. Surely... it doesn't have to come to this. Hasn't there been enough killing already?"
So this was how it was going to be. Collins grimaced. He should have guessed.
"You told me once, Tommy, that you believed sometimes hard sacrifices have to be made, for a life that's worth living".
Tom nodded.
"So I did, once. But not any more".
"I know that the Treaty isn't perfect, Tommy; far from it. But it's a beginning and given time, with good will on all sides we can work towards our dream of achieving a fully independent Ireland".
"Do you honestly believe that is possible?"
"I have to believe it, Tommy. With the signing of the Treaty, Ireland now has a chance to achieve what she's been waiting for for nearly seven hundred years. You can see that for sure? I know others do too, although I know equally well that just as many don't; at least for now. As to whether I myself will live long enough to see it all come to pass..." Collins sadly shook his head.
"You don't really think..."
"That in accepting the terms we were offered over there in London, I've signed my own death warrant? For sure". Collins nodded and now pointed in the direction of the Four Courts. "Those hotheads holed up in there will never forgive me for agreeing to what I did. Any of it. Even de Valera called me a traitor. And there are many others in the Dáil and in the army, men I once led, who think I betrayed the republic and sold us all out to the British!"
Tom looked utterly appalled; recalled to mind what Sybil had said several months ago, that in being sent to London to lead the peace negotiations with the British, Collins had been set up.
"And what about Wilson? Did you know anything about it?"
A matter of days ago, Sir Henry Wilson, one of the most senior staff officers of the British Army during the Great War and the Unionist MP for North Down in the new Parliament of Northern Ireland, who had urged strongly the introduction of martial law in Ireland during the War of Independence, who had been an outspoken critic of the Anglo-Irish Truce, who thought the Treaty to have been "a shameful and cowardly surrender to the pistol", had been shot dead outside his home in London.
There were rumours circulating, nothing more, that Collins had sanctioned the shooting; that Wilson had been advocating reorganising British military forces and the police in Northern Ireland so as to be in a position to launch an invasion of the Free State from there. Whether any of this was indeed true was anybody's guess but with what had happened recently along the new border with the north, with repeated clashes between forces loyal to the Free State and those of the British administration of Northern Ireland, anything was possible.
"No, of course not! Whatever do you take me for?" Collins who had moved several paces away to get a better view of the Four Courts now swung back on his heel. Seeing the angry look upon Collins' face, Tom took a step backwards.
"Only I did hear..."
"Hear what, Tommy? Why on earth should I have sanctioned killing Wilson? Tell me that! I hated the man for sure but to provoke the British and give them an excuse to send their troops back into Ireland? Never! And if that were to happen, what then? Why, it would sound the death knell for each and every one of us in favour of the Treaty!"
Tom nodded.
"What you're saying, Michael, makes perfect sense. All the same I..."
"Don't ever forget, Tommy, with what you could have said on oath about what the Tans did down there in County Cork and all the rest of it, why if it had been left up to that bastard Churchill, until all of this had been settled, you would have been left rotting in Dartmoor gaol! I got you out of there Tommy. I did that! No-one else. Remember? So I'd be appreciating your support in this for sure". Collins jabbed Tom's chest with his gloved forefinger.
"No, I haven't forgotten what you did for me," said Tom quietly. After all, how could I?"
Collins nodded. His expression softened. He looked bone weary as well he might, given the responsibilities which had been heaped upon him.
"Just what is the feckin' alternative? You tell me that! Why, if bloody Churchill and others like him over there in London have their way, then mark my words, Tommy, the British army will be back here in Ireland and marching past the Column on Sackville Street! You know what that bastard Lloyd George said, that if we failed to accept the Treaty he would launch "an immediate and terrible war" here in Ireland. Don't you be forgetting that!"
"I'm not," said Tom brokenly.
He had always detested violence and with what he had seen and suffered recently, he now abhorred it all the more with something akin to a vengeance.
"All the same, Michael, for sure I don't see why those occupying the courts can't be given another chance. Sweet Blood of Christ, you're about to give the order to use British artillery on our own damned people!"
Seeing how crestfallen he looked, Collins relented somewhat, placed his hands gently on Tom's shoulders.
"I've given them every opportunity to leave. You know Arthur Griffith wanted them out of there as soon as they occupied the building back in April but for the last two months I've resisted all calls to shift them by force. And now they've gone and kidnapped O'Connell. Well, they've had their chance. I only wish I had mine. Don't you understand, Tommy, what you spoke of just now... of a price having to be paid? Well this is the price that has to be paid... to stop all that happening. Quid pro quo. Churchill expects us to maintain order and to enforce the terms of the Treaty. Unless the occupation of the Four Courts is brought to an immediate end, the British Government will regard the Treaty as having been violated and will resume 'full liberty of action'. Churchill's words, not mine. Can't you see, my hands are tied!"
But in his heart Collins knew too that his impassioned plea would cut no ice with Tommy Branson; unable to meet Tom's guileless gaze, the Big Fellow, as Collins was affectionately known, a nickname acquired long ago in childhood and continued into his adult life, now turned away from him so that, Tom supposed, in the dim grey light of dawn, shaded by the peak of his military cap, he could not see the other's face.
Collins nodded curtly to the officer in charge of the huge 18-pounder gun. In turn, having ordered that a slight adjustment be made in the elevation of the long, polished steel barrel pointing directly at the buildings across the river, the young officer likewise nodded, this time to the group of six gunners kneeling beside the massive artillery piece. He raised his right arm quickly and then brought it down just as swiftly.
"Fire!"
There came a deafening, ear-splitting roar, followed by a piercing scream; the massive gun shook and recoiled violently as the first high explosive shell soared away across the grey waters of the river. A minute or so later and it hit the elegant, imposing granite façade of the mass of buildings opposite sending up a billowing cloud of fragments of shattered masonry, choking dust, black smoke and a sheet of orange flame.
The assault on the Four Courts had commenced, the battle of Dublin had begun and with it, the Irish Civil War.
Author's Note:
Following the murder of Sir Henry Wilson in London, the government of the nascent Irish Free State was left with little choice but to try and bring a speedy end to the occupation of the Four Courts in Dublin. Had they not done so, at that time there was every prospect of military intervention by the British followed by the re-occupation of the south of Ireland.
On the available evidence, it seems highly unlikely that Michael Collins sanctioned or played any part in the murder of Sir Henry Wilson.
The British government did indeed loan the Irish National Army several artillery pieces for the assault on the Four Courts.
Arthur Griffith (1872-1922) President of Dáil Éireann January-August 1922 and leader of the Irish delegation which had attended the peace negotiations in London which led to the Anglo-Irish Treaty.
At this time, JJ "Ginger" O'Connell (1887-1944) was Deputy Chief of Staff of the new Irish National Army.