the early days of December. This meeting today at the Mansion House didn’t ring in my memory as productive or pivotal. There’d been little information on it at all, except when it was referred to in subsequent debates. It was the beginning of the end, but the squabbling would only intensify in the weeks to come.
“Specifics are difficult,” I began, “but there will be anger over the oath of allegiance to the Crown that Lloyd George is demanding. De Valera will insist on external association instead of dominion status, as the articles now read—”
“External association was shot down,” Michael interrupted. “We tried that, and it was roundly rejected. Dominion status with an oath that declares the Crown as the head of a collection of individual states—Ireland being one of them—is the closest we can get to a republic. We are a small nation, and England is an empire. Dominion status is the best we are going to get. I see it as one step closer to greater independence down the road. We can get a foothold or we can go to war. Those are the choices,” Michael snapped.
I nodded, and Thomas reached over and squeezed my hand, encouraging me to continue. Michael Collins wasn’t mad at me. He was weary, and he’d had all these same arguments a hundred times over the previous weeks.
“All I can tell you, Michael, is that those who hated you before, hate you still. There is little you’ll be able to say to change their minds.”
“Cathal Brugha and Austin Stack,” Michael sighed, naming his fiercest adversaries in the Irish cabinet. “Dev doesn’t hate me . . . or maybe he does.” Michael rubbed at his face. “De Valera’s name carries weight throughout Ireland, and he’s the president of the Dáil. He has a great deal of political capital to spend. But I can’t figure him out. It’s as though he wants to dictate the direction the country takes, but he doesn’t want to be the one in the driver’s seat, steering the vehicle, in case we go off a cliff.”
“He will compare himself to a captain whose crew rushed in before the tide and almost sank the ship.”
“Will he, now?” Michael said, his countenance darkening. “A captain of a ship who didn’t bother to set sail with his crew.”
“I believe you say something in one of the debates about him trying to sail the ship from dry land,” I murmured.
“Ah. That’s even more apt,” Michael retorted.
“The people will be with you, Mick. If the Treaty is good enough for you, it’s good enough for us,” Thomas spoke up.
“It’s not good enough for me, Tommy. Not nearly good enough. But it’s a start. It’s more than Ireland’s ever had.” He brooded for a moment before asking me his final questions. “So I’ll be going back to London, then?”
“You will,” I said firmly.
“Will de Valera go to London with us?”
“No.”
Collins nodded as if he’d expected as much.
“Will the others sign the Treaty? I know Arthur will sign, but what about the rest of the Irish delegation?”
“They will all sign. Barton will be the hardest to convince. But the prime minister will tell him it will be war in three days if he doesn’t.” Lloyd George had likely been bluffing about the timeframe, according to historians, but Barton had believed him. They all had. And the Treaty was signed.
Michael sighed heavily. “Then there is little I need to say today. I’m too tired to argue anyway.” He yawned widely, his jaw cracking with the action. “When are you going to marry this girl, Tommy?”
Thomas smiled at me but said nothing.
“If you don’t marry her, I will.” Michael yawned again.
“You already have too many women to juggle, Mr. Collins. Princess Mary, Kitty Kiernan, Hazel Lavery, Moya Llewelyn-Davies . . . am I missing any?” I asked.
His eyebrows shot up. “Good God, woman. You’re frightening,” he whispered. “Maybe it’s time Kitty and I set a date.” He was quiet for ten seconds. “Princess Mary?” he asked, brow furrowed in confusion.
“I believe Countess Markievicz accuses you of having an affair with Princess Mary during the Treaty negotiations,” I said, chuckling.
“Jaysus,” he groaned. “As if I had the time. Thanks for the warning.”
We pulled up in front of the Dublin Mansion House, the headquarters for the Irish parliament. It was a handsome, rectangular edifice with stately windows marching across the pale exterior and lining either side of a canopied entrance. A crowd had formed. Men lined the wall to the left of