Page 198 of The Missing Sister

Finn looked at her and sighed. ‘I’m too tired for this, Nuala. I’m off to clean myself up.’

Nuala took the sleeping Maggie from her cradle and hugged her to her breast, looking down at her young daughter’s face.

‘What’s to become of us, little one?’ she whispered. Maggie continued to sleep peacefully in her arms.

It was decided that all members of Finn’s brigade should once more take to the hills and become the shadows they had been last time around.

‘Are you saying the pro-Treaty lot will come and arrest you on your doorstep like the British did last time?’ Nuala asked Finn when he came home.

‘Some of ours have been arrested and thrown into the jails by the National Army during the skirmishes, but if they want to push further to clear out the troublemakers, well, they’ll be knowing where we all live, won’t they?’ he pointed out. ‘And where our safehouses were, because they used them themselves in the old days.’

‘How many of you are left, would you say?’

‘Enough,’ said Finn. ‘But there’s news come down from one of our spies in Dublin that the Big Fellow might be planning to pay a visit to West Cork.’

‘Mick Collins would come here?!’

‘’Tis where he was born, Nuala. ’Tis his place, and there’s many around these parts that might be anti-Treaty, but still see Mick as a god, the hero that saved Ireland. ’Tis ironic, isn’t it?’

‘What?’

‘West Cork and Kerry probably contributed more to the winning of a truce with the British than any other part of Ireland. We all fought for Mick, believed in him because he was one of our own, but that passion makes us the most anti-Treaty area in Ireland. ’Tis madness, it really is. Anyway...’ Finn tied the belt of his trench coat and heaved his haversack onto his shoulder. ‘I’ll be off.’ He took her face in his hands and kissed her gently on the lips. ‘Remember how much I love you, my Nuala. And how I’m doing this for you, our small ones and their babes to come.’

‘I love you too, and I always will,’ she whispered as she watched the door close and her husband leave her again.

Two days later, Nuala saw a number of villagers walking down the street or on their ponies and traps.

‘Where are they going?’ she asked Christy, who had popped over for his now habitual cup of tea before the pub opened its doors.

‘The talk is that Michael Collins will be in Clonakilty this afternoon. I heard some chat last night in the pub that he’d passed through Béal na Bláth. His convoy had to stop and ask directions outside Long’s pub from Denny, who works there.’

‘What!’ Nuala put her hand to her mouth. ‘Did Denny tell them the way?’

‘Sure he did,’ nodded Christy. ‘There were a few of our boys in the pub, as there’s a brigade meeting later at Murray’s farmhouse nearby. Tom Hales was up there, and I also heard that de Valera himself was travelling down from Dublin for the meeting. ’Tis said they’re deciding whether to continue with the war or not. And there, bold as you like, our sworn enemy, Mick Collins, passing by just a few miles from where they all were, not suspecting a thing.’ Christy shook his head and chuckled.

‘Are you sure Denny saw Mick Collins in the car?’

‘Yes, Denny would swear on the Bible ’twas him. He was sitting in an open-topped car, and now half of West Cork has got wind that he’s down here. Word has it he’ll be visiting all the towns that the National Army has taken, and everyone has taken a bet he’ll stop at Clonakilty near his homeplace.’

Nuala watched the flurry of activity in the street gaining momentum.

‘You’ll be giving it a miss, will you, Nuala?’ asked Christy with an ironic smile.

‘I will indeed.’ There was a pause as Nuala took in the ramifications of what she’d just been told. ‘If our lot know he’s here and will most likely return the way he came, will they be planning anything?’

Christy turned his head away from Nuala. ‘I’d not be knowing. Seems to me that today, all the chickens have come home to roost.’

It was late evening by the time Nuala saw the villagers and those who lived beyond Clogagh returning. They obviously had drink in them and wanted more, as many of them parked their carts, bicycles and themselves outside the pub. Unable to resist, she opened her front door and listened as the crowd milled about outside with pints of porter or drops of whiskey.

‘Twas at O’Donovan’s Mick bought me a drink...’

‘Ah now, it was drinks on the house at Denny Kingston’s place. He waved at me!’

‘Mick asked after my small ones, he did!’

Nuala recognised men and women who’d been passionate IRA volunteers during the revolution. With a sad shake of her head, she closed the door. Then she poured herself her own whiskey.

At just past midnight, Nuala was roused out of a whiskey-induced slumber by the creaking of the back door opening. She heard footsteps coming upstairs and sat up, holding her breath until she saw Finn enter the room.