Michael Collins E-Book

Eithne Massey

• Herausgeber: The O'Brien Press
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 214

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

I want to be part of it, thought Michael. I want to be part of the song, part of the story. Listening to tales of old Ireland on a West Cork farm and fighting his corner in the school playground, a little fella with a fierce sense of injustice and an equally fierce temper vows to fight for Irish independence. 'I'd rather have a living brother than a brother who goes down in the history books as a hero, a dead hero!' says Hannie Collins. But headstrong as ever, young Michael leaves his job in London and returns to Ireland to fight in the 1916 Rising. Later, he creates a spy ring of ordinary people, in a Dublin where nothing is quite what it seems. This is the story of Michael Collins – brave hero and determined leader, loyal friend and dangerous enemy. He loved life. In the summer of1922 he was full of plans for his own future and for that of his country. But history had other plans for Michael.

Leseprobe

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Timeline of Main Events

1890 – Michael Collins is born in Woodfield, near Clonakilty in Co. Cork

1906 – Michael moves to London to take up a job in the Kensington Post Office.

1916 – Michael takes part in the 1916 Rising as one of the Volunteers. He is arrested and sent to Britain, where he spends some months in the Frongoch Internment Camp in Wales. He is released at Christmas.

1917 – In February, Michael takes up the post as Secretary of the National Aid Association and Volunteer Dependents’ Fund. He also begins to campaign for Sinn Féin candidates in by-elections and to set up his intelligence network. He meets Kitty Kiernan.

1918 – Michael is active in the Volunteer Dependents’ Fund, Sinn Féin and the IRB. With Harry Boland, he organises the escape of Éamon de Valera from Lincoln Jail. In November, World War I ends. In the elections that follow, Sinn Féin gain a majority of seats. Michael is elected an MP for Cork.

1919 – In January, the First Dáil is held. Michael becomes Minister of Finance. The War of Independence begins.

1920 – Guerrilla war in Ireland intensifies, with raids, shootings, arrests and hunger strikes. The Auxiliaries and the Black and Tans are sent to Ireland to support the local government 6forces. Michael sets up ‘The Squad’. On 21 November, Bloody Sunday sees a death toll of thirty-two.

1921 – Truce takes effect on 11 July. Michael is sent to London as one of the delegates for the Anglo-Irish Treaty negotiations. The Treaty is signed by the delegates on 6 December.

1922 – In January, the Treaty is ratified by the Dáil. De Valera and the Anti-Treaty members walk out of the Dáil in protest. Michael becomes Leader of the Provisional Government and Arthur Griffith President of the Dáil.

Also in January, the British Army leaves Ireland, and Dublin Castle is handed over to the Free State, represented by Michael.

In June, the Civil War begins. The Four Courts is shelled. Michael becomes Commander-in-Chief of the Free State Army.

In August, Michael is killed in an ambush at Béal na Blá (the Mouth of/Way to the Pasture) in Cork.

Table of Contents

Title PageTimeline of Main EventsAt the Forge, 1900The StorytellerLondon, 1906WinningLosingIn PrisonDublin, 1917GranardWeaving the WebEscape!Secret CityWar!Bloody SundayDark DaysTruce!Back in LondonThe TreatyBrother Against BrotherThe Way to the PastureAfterwardsOther BooksAbout the AuthorBy the Same AuthorCopyright

9

At the Forge, 1900

His head was spinning. Sprawled on the ground, he could already feel the bump rising on his skull. Beneath him he could feel wet, sticky mud. His chest hurt. On top of him was the weight of the world and he was breathing in the sour smell of a boy who hadn’t changed his clothes since their first day back at school.

‘Surrender! Surrender!’

‘Never!’

He pushed with all his might and the weight shifted, lifted, fell to one side. As he struggled to get up, gasping for breath, he heard a sudden roar. Now there was another pain. His ear was caught in a tight grip and he was pulled to his feet.

‘Ye young divils!’

The Master, Denis Leary, was pulling him away from Gerry. ‘Enough of that now, the pair of you ... Gerry Cadogan – you big amadán, you should know better than to be fighting with the little fellas. And as for you, Michael Collins, are you mad, taking him on? Get inside, the pair of you, and count yourselves lucky not to get a beating to add to your bruises.’10  

Michael’s mouth opened, ready to explain that Gerry Cadogan had been picking on Paddy, the smallest child in the school. The Master was having none of it.

‘Amn’t I after telling you to get inside, Michael Collins? And not another word out of you or you will be more than sorry!’

Michael went inside.

He settled at his desk, still red with fury that the fight had been interrupted. His sister Katie sent him a sympathetic wink from the girls’ side of the classroom. Katie wouldn’t tell on him at home. Katie never did.

He nursed his head and felt a sense of injustice grow inside him. Tears were rising, not because of the pain but because of the unfairness of it all. He knew he had been right to take on Gerry Cadogan, the biggest bully in the school. The master should have realised that. Gerry was always picking on the little ones, the ones smaller than Michael, who, although he was only ten, was big and strong. And always ready for a scrap.

There was no arguing with the Master, though Michael had often tried. In spite of this, Michael liked Master O’Leary, and he knew that he was one of his favourite pupils. Master O’Leary took the time every day to tell the stories that Michael loved. Nothing was said, but the children somehow knew that these stories were not to be mentioned when the Inspector came around. They were tales of the heroes of Ireland’s past, 11men like Wolfe Tone and Robert Emmet who had fought against the English. So many battles for Irish freedom from the British Empire! So many failures and executions and betrayals! But every execution and betrayal was the source of another story, another song. The Master taught them the songs and the poems too: poems about brave rebel leaders and noble ancient chieftains. The lines stayed in Michael’s head, replayed again and again like music: the calls to battle, the curses piled on the enemy. May the hearthstone of hell be his best bed forever! He muttered the curse under his breath and glared at Gerry, pleased to see that there was a fine purple bruise rising on his enemy’s face.

The Master wasn’t the only one who talked to Michael about standing up to English landlords. Two of his uncles had been sent to jail because they had taken on a landlord who had destroyed their crops, riding through their fields during a hunt. It wasn’t right that landlords could do what they liked. It wasn’t right that they could take food out of the country, while the people who grew the food were left hungry. The food was sold for the profit of the people who owned the land, not for the benefit of those who worked that land night and day, every day of the year. It wasn’t fair and it had to be stopped. Michael sighed. Wasn’t that what he had tried to do when he took on Gerry Cadogan?

The Master came down and gave him a friendly cuff on the shoulder. He held an armful of test papers, and slapped one 12down on Michael’s desk. ‘There, top of the class in arithmetic again! Well done. Now take that puss off your face. I know what you want to say, but you can’t take on the world. Not yet anyway!’

The bell rang for home time and the children streamed out of the school. Rain was lashing down in sheets as Katie and Michael huddled at the gate of the schoolyard. They would be soaked during the two-mile walk back to Woodfield.

Katie knew better than to mention the bruises on Michael’s arms or the scratches on his face. One of their Woodfield neighbours joined them.

‘Are the two of you off home?’ he asked.

Michael shook his head. ‘I’m in no rush to get there. And the rain is a good excuse to stop by the forge until it stops!’

Eugene grinned.

‘So you reckon your mother has found out about your granny’s cloak?

Michael looked sheepish. It had seemed such a good idea at the time, using the heavy woollen cloak as a tent in one of their games. But unfortunately it had ended up getting caught in a fence on their way back to the house. There was now a huge rip in the lining and the hood had lost half its ruffles. The cow dung it had dropped into when they tried to pull it free hadn’t helped either.

Katie threw her eyes up to heaven.13

‘It’s going to be worse than you thought, Michael; one of the O’Heas saw the fight you were in with Gerry, so that news will get home to Mam before you do! And she won’t be happy when she sees the mud all over your coat.’

Michael scowled. That was the problem with Woodfield. You could do nothing without everybody knowing about it.

Once inside the forge, Michael forgot about the scolding that would no doubt be waiting for him when he got home. The forge was one of his favourite places. It was always full of noise and life, a place where people could come and talk at ease about how the country’s affairs were going, and what might be needed to set things right. The old battles were remembered and the politics of the day were discussed. It was always warm in the forge, because the blacksmith, Jimmy, needed to keep a huge fire going for his work. Jimmy himself was red-faced and strong as an ox. Though he never stopped working, he was always happy to have people drop in – even small boys like Michael, who were simply told to keep their mouths shut and their ears open if they wanted to be allowed to stay.

Jimmy’s father had forged pikes for rebellions against English rule and his grandfather had fought in 1798. These were the heroes of the old songs and the stories. And now there were other heroes to talk about. One of these was Michael Davitt, the leader of the Land League. This organisation was fighting for better treatment for the tenants, because in Ireland 14much of the land was part of huge estates, owned by landlords. The tenants paid high rents to the landlords, many of whom didn’t even live in Ireland. The final aim of the Land War was to have the estates of the landlords broken up and the land bought by its Irish tenants. The other great hero had been Charles Stewart Parnell, who wanted Irish people to have their own parliament in Dublin. But since he had fallen in love with a married lady and was in disgrace, there was less talk of him. Michael found all the talk about government acts and home rule a bit boring. It was total freedom from England that was needed, the freedom that the Young Irelanders and the Fenians had fought for!

He sat in the warmth and listened to the buzz of voices, and made up his own mind about the rights and wrongs of the arguments. Michael was determined he would grow up and do something to help Ireland stand up to English rule. Had there not been a time before the English, when things must have been so much better? When the Irish were not seen as stupid, lazy and dishonest? A time when the horrors of the Famine could not have occurred? His father had told him stories of the terrible misery of the years when the potato crops failed. Old Mr Burke was talking about the famine now.

‘Them were dreadful times. We were lucky. Clonakilty wasn’t the worst hit. But the people of Skibbereen were in a terrible state. People, half-dead already, being thrown out of 15their houses because they couldn’t pay the rent. You could see bodies on the ground with green marks around their mouths where they had tried to eat grass. And at the same time wheat and meat and all sorts of food was being shipped out of the country. So the landlords could buy more horses, and stuff themselves sick at big feasts in London. When I think of the bodies being piled into the huge pits over at Abbeystrewry – they hadn’t the strength to bury them decently … there were no coffins, just cloth bags.’

Michael shuddered. He knew how important it was to send the dead off in a decent way. He had been only six when Dadda had died, but he still remembered his father’s wake. The house packed with people. The mourners around the coffin, chanting decade after decade of the rosary, each person taking a turn to lead the prayer. The smell of the tall white candles. His brothers and sisters in tears. His mother, unable to sit down for even a moment. Rushing around, making sure everyone had enough to eat and drink, refilling glasses and cutting bread and bacon as if her life depended on it, loading the fire with turf against the bitter March weather.

There had been great sadness in the house. But there had also been singing and stories, and memories shared of a life lived well. It was horrible to think that thousands of people had not had that respect given to them when they died. Their families had been so desperate to find food for themselves 16that they had not even covered the faces of their beloved dead.

Many of those who had died had been children. Death was surely not quite so sad when the person who died had lived a long life. Michael’s father had been an old, old man when he died. He had already been an old man when Michael, the youngest of eight children, was born. But Dadda had still been big and strong and still worked the farm. Michael remembered little things about him – the stories he had told, a kind voice, a presence that always made him feel totally safe. Some of the memories were a little fuzzy. Some of his memories might even have been stories told to him by his older brothers and sisters. Did he really remember deciding to go and dig potatoes when he was three? Or falling through the open trapdoor from the loft?

Michael jumped as Jimmy’s great hammer came down onto a horseshoe with a loud clang. Sparks flew out and he realised that if he didn’t get moving he would be in even more trouble than he was already.

‘Are you off, Michael? I hope you won’t get a scolding at home. I heard you were wrestling with the big boys again!’

‘Everyone in this place hears everything!’ said Michael indignantly.

‘You’re right there,’ said Jimmy. ‘That’s the way it is in this country; the walls have ears.’17

Michael couldn’t help laughing as he imagined ears sticking out of walls. Jimmy laughed too, but added: ‘’Tis all very well, but even if you are a great wrestler for your age, you can’t take on the world, young fella.’  

Here we go again, thought Michael.

‘Why can’t I?’ he asked.

‘Well, you are only a little fella yet.’’

‘I am not,’ said Michael indignantly. ‘I’m a big fella!’

18

The Storyteller

The lane was full of swirling leaves and the fields that stretched behind the bare hedges were brown and dull. A cart passed and splashed Michael with muddy water. He waved at the little donkey that was pulling it, and the donkey flicked his ears at him in a friendly fashion. At least the rain had stopped. Michael didn’t mind the weather. What else would you expect at the end of October? He liked the swirling leaves, and he quite liked October too. His birthday was in October and there was always some kind of celebration on the day.

Whenever he walked home alone, he had special rituals. He had to say hello to the goats in Brennan’s field; he had to salute the fairy fort and the lone hawthorn; he had to keep an eye out for any interesting birds or animals. His father had talked to him a lot about animals; he had been the seventh son of a seventh son and had the gift of healing them. He had been able to soothe any animal he laid his hands on, even their frisky white pony, Gypsy. His mother was always a little nervous around horses and ponies. Her mother had been thrown out of a trap and had never really recovered from it. Not that 19his mother would ever talk about her fear; she never admitted to being afraid of anything.

The house was coming into view. He felt his chest fill with pride when he saw it: two storeys, a solid red door and five windows, facing into wind and rain and standing safe and solid as a rock. After his father died, his mother had decided they needed a new and bigger house. Michael had been fascinated to see the walls of the house rise, the roof go on. He had wanted to be part of the adventure, and throughout the summer had stuck like a burr to the men working on the building, getting underfoot while trying to be helpful. But now the house was finished. The little stone cottage where all the children had been born was used as a house for the hens and ducks. There was even a flower garden. Nobody else in Woodfield had one. At the moment it wasn’t very impressive, with nothing more than some late and very straggly chrysanthemums still blooming there. But in the summer it was glorious, filled with scent and colour. His mother loved flowers.

He stopped and narrowed his eyes. The front door was open and he could see his mother there, talking to someone. Michael immediately felt more cheerful, for he recognised the worn green coat and wild white hair of Seánie of the Roads. Seánie was one of the travelling people. He sold bits of things, pins and needles and ribbons, but his main trade was in stories. He could tell a tale like no-one else could. There were 20many travellers like that, and they always came to Mrs Collins, who was famous for her hospitality. They were never refused a meal and a bed beside the fire in the kitchen. With a bit of luck, Seánie’s arrival would divert his mother from his own misdeeds. Michael ran the last stretch home, where he was greeted by a welcome sea of barks and wagging tails from the farm dogs.

* * *

‘Michael, move over there and let Lena closer to the fire, so she can see what it is she’s reading. We don’t want her eyes ruined.’

Michael shifted, dislodging the dog who gave half a growl and then licked his hand. His mother settled into her chair and took up her mending. Michael leaned in against the comforting warmth of her woollen skirt. There was always mending waiting for his mother in the evening. Michael himself was the biggest producer of torn trousers and worn-out socks.

His mother’s hands were always busy, on the farm or in the house. She never stayed still, despite her slight limp. She made sure that every one of the family worked hard too. Nobody dared complain when they were given a job to do. Michael’s mother’s way of looking at things was that moaning about how tough things were was a waste of time. You just got on with the work.

And on the farm, there was always work. There was always something to be done. Bread to be baked; bacon to be cured, 21black and white puddings and sausages to be made. Butter to be churned. Chickens and geese and ducks to be fed. Cows to be milked. Pans to be scoured. Water to be fetched from the well. Crops to be sown and crops to be harvested; hay to be cut. Sallies to be cut too, and brought home to be made into baskets. Potatoes to be planted. Potatoes to be dug. Potatoes to be cleaned and cooked. Pots to be washed. Turf to be cut and brought into the house for the fire. Fires to be lit and ashes to be cleared. Sheets to be washed. Linen to be ironed. Beds to be made and furniture to be dusted.

Scoldings to be given. Scoldings to be endured.

Earlier, he had been given his scolding. Luckily his mother had been too busy to go on for long.

‘Michael, you know very well you shouldn’t have taken that cloak. You will have to stop being so thoughtless—’

Gentle Lena, as usual, tried to defend her little brother.

‘Sure he was only having an adventure!’

‘He never stops having adventures. And they always end up as trouble! Only last week I had to rescue my best bonnet, when he decided to put it on the pony!’

Michael couldn’t help grinning. Gypsy had looked hilarious in the bonnet. But this brought on more scolding.

‘Take that smile off your face, Michael Collins. You are old enough now to have a bit more sense – and to stop wrestling with the young fellas in your class, half of them twice your size.’22  

Seánie of the Roads looked up from the plate of bread and bacon he had been eating by the fireside.

‘He’s a healthy lad, with a heap of energy, Mrs Collins, and you should be glad he is so.’

His mother shrugged, then gave Michael a quick hug. ‘Well, if I hear about any more fights at school, one of those willow canes you cut me yesterday won’t be going into a basket; I’m warning you – it’ll be put to good use for something else! But get on there, it’s time to bring the cows in for milking. Katie, you go with him.’

The cows had been brought in and milked. The chickens and ducks had been fed, the pony stabled, everything made tight and secure. Then there was the evening meal, after which the washing up was done and the bread for tomorrow left to rise. After that there had been the rosary, and prayers said for his father’s soul and for the health of family and friends.

Now, finally, the bustle of the day was over and there were other things to be done. Songs to be sung. Stories to be told. Everyone in the house, and some of the neighbours who had come in to hear Seánie, gathered around the fire. Michael and Patrick were weaving baskets out of the willow wands. Katie was darning a pair of stockings. His mother sewed, mending the tear that Michael had made, handling the great black cloak lovingly; it had belonged to her grandmother and would be passed down to the next generation.23

There were gaps around the fireside. Hannie, Michael’s oldest sister, had a job in the Post Office and lived in London now. The family saw her only during the summer holidays. Michael missed her; she always had time to listen to her little brother. Mary had been sent to school in Glasgow – she was going to become a teacher, like her sister Margaret. Johnnie would have the farm, but everyone else would have to make their own way in the world.

Johnnie was Michael’s hero. Tonight, Margaret and Johnnie had gone out on their bicycles to their cousins down at Sam’s Cross, with strict instructions from their mother not to be home too late. It was close to Halloween, the dark time of the year, a time when unquiet spirits and the fairies were out. Though Mary Ann Collins was a practical woman, like all of her neighbours, she was not going to take any risks with the Good People.

Lena was the only one not involved in darning or sewing or weaving. She sat in the inglenook seat, her head buried in a book. Lena was going away soon too. She was going to become a nun. She wasn’t as strong as the others. She had almost died when she was small, badly burnt in an accident and only saved by her father’s quick thinking and the help of the local Protestant clergyman. Lena was hoping to take the name Sister Mary Celestine. She had told Michael the reason why she was going to ask to take that name. Michael loved 24the story, because it had his Dadda in it. Every story about his father was precious.

‘One winter evening, there was just the two of us bringing the cows in for milking. All the stars were coming out. And we saw something bright flying across the sky. It was a shooting star,’ she said. ‘And Dadda said to me:

“Lena, I don’t know much about anything.…”

‘I said: “Of course you do, Dadda. You know loads of things. Even Greek and Latin!”

‘And he laughed and said: “Ah, only bits and pieces from the old hedge schoolmaster. That was all the education we got in those days. But listen to me; I do know something. I know something about God that you won’t be told by the priest on a Sunday. God is what I see up there in those beautiful stars and in the evening sky. You can do a lot of praying, Helena, but you won’t get much closer to God than when you are looking at his stars.”

‘And then he started to tell me all the names of the constellations. And all the Greek stories about the heroes and gods and goddesses. So, because Celeste means from Heaven, that’s the name I would like to take. I want to be Sister Celestine.’