stood near one, outlined in light, conversing with Daniel O’Toole. “Someone needs to tell the Big Fella not to stand in front of the windows. You never know who’s hiding in the trees.”
Thomas stiffened at the veiled threat, his hand tightening on my body, and I was grateful for the support when a voice spoke up from the shadows, accompanied by the unmistakable snick of a pistol being cocked.
“No, you never do,” Fergus intoned, moving toward us. A cigarette hung from the bodyguard’s lips, giving him a casual air completely at odds with the weapon he wielded.
Ben flinched, and his hands fluttered at his sides.
“Don’t do it,” Fergus warned quietly. “You’ll ruin Christmas for a lot of good people.”
Ben’s hands stilled.
“If you’re going to go inside, I’ll need that gun you’re thinking about pulling,” Fergus insisted calmly. “If you’re not going inside, I’ll still take it, just to make sure you live through the night. Then I’ll need you to start walking toward Dublin.” He let his cigarette fall, and without lowering his eyes, ground the butt into the dirt with the toe of his shoe. He approached Ben and without fanfare, searched him for weapons, removing a knife from his boot and a gun from his waistband.
“His mother is inside. His nephew too. He’s family,” Thomas murmured.
Fergus nodded once, a quick jerk of his head. “I heard. So why is he out here in the trees, watching the house?”
“I came to see my mother. To see my sister-in-law, back from the dead. To see Eoin and you, Doc. I’ve come here for Christmas for the last five years. I didn’t expect Collins to be here. I hadn’t decided if I was going to stay,” Ben reasoned, affronted.
“And Liam? Is Liam here too?” I asked. I heard the tremor in my voice, and Thomas grew rigid beside me.
“Liam’s in Youghal, down in Cork. He won’t be coming home this year. Too much work to do. There’s a war on,” Ben ground out.
“Not here, Ben. There’s no war here. Not tonight. Not now,” Thomas said.
Ben nodded, his jaw clenched, but his expression was one of disgust, and his eyes condemned us all. “I want to see my mother and the boy. I’ll stay the night in the barn. Then I’ll be on my way.”
“Go on inside, then,” Fergus ordered. He prodded Ben forward, not lowering his gun. “But stay away from Mr. Collins.”
24 December 1921
Something changed in Ireland around the turn of the century. There was a cultural revival of sorts. We sang the old songs and heard the old stories—things we’d heard many times before—but they were taught with an intensity that was new. We looked at ourselves and at each other, and there was a sense of anticipation. There was pride, even reverence, for who we were, what we could aspire to, and those we had descended from. I was taught to love Ireland. Mick was taught to love Ireland. I have no doubt Ben and Liam and Declan were taught to love her too. But for the first time in my life, I’m not sure what that means.
After our confrontation with Ben Gallagher, Anne and I stood beneath the trees, shaken by the event.
“I don’t like this world, Thomas,” Anne whispered. “This world is something the other Anne clearly understood and something I will never understand.”
“What world, Countess?” I asked her, though I already knew.
“The world of Ben Gallagher and Michael Collins, of shifting lines and changing sides. And the worst part is . . . I know how it ends. I know the ending, and I still don’t understand it.”
“Why? Why can’t you understand it?”
“Because I haven’t lived it,” she confessed. “Not like you have. The Ireland I know is one of songs and stories and dreams. It is Eoin’s version—we all have one—and yet even that version is softened and reshaped because he left it behind. I don’t know the Ireland of oppression and revolution. I haven’t been taught to hate.”
“We weren’t taught to hate, Anne.”
“You were.”
“We were taught to love.”
“Love what?”
“Freedom. Identity. Possibility. Ireland,” I argued.
“And what will you do with that love?” she pressed. When I didn’t answer, she answered for me. “I’ll tell you what you will do. You will turn on each other because you don’t love Ireland. You love the idea of Ireland. And each man has his own idea of what that is.”
I could only shake my head, wounded, resistant. Outrage for Ireland—for every injustice—burned in my chest, and I