1922 – Ambush
Long's Pub, Bal na mBlth, West Cork, Irish Free State
"Say that again Lady and I'll nay be held responsible." The outraged man rose to his feet, his face bright red. Six feet tall at least and with a build to match, Tom Macaulloch was a man feared in the small village of Bal na mBlth. A hot temper and readiness with his fists saw to that. Now he was being defied, not by a man of equal size, that he could understand at least, but by a woman who was a foot shorter than him. Such an insult a man could not take.
"I said, is there no man in Ireland with balls then? Or do you spend all your time licking those belonging to the British?" The sneer in the voice was worse than the words, and another gasp ran around the bar. Macaullochs face went from red to purple and he lunged at the woman, not quite knowing what he wanted to do but grimly aware if he did nothing, he would be a laughing stock from this point on.
What happened next was something that nobody could quite comprehend or believe. The woman kicked Macaullochs legs out from under him while her hand swept around in a curve, catching the back of his head and slamming his face into the bar. There was a crackle of bone as Macaullochs teeth and nose shattered with the impact. Then he slumped to the floor, blood streaming from his face. Achillea looked down and rolled him over with her foot, there was nothing to be gained by leaving him to choke on his own blood. She'd made her point.
Still, just to check, Achillea looked hopefully around the stunned bar. "Next?" her voice both questioning and challenging. Not a man there would meet her gaze.
"I thought not. Nobody with a pair worth mentioning. A sad disappointment to your wives I am sure. Perhaps they go to the next village to get what they seek." Another stir and mutterings of anger.
"What would you have us do then Lady? Or are you all talk and nothing more?" The voice came from the back of the room. Achillea relaxed slightly, she was getting the response she needed at last.
"The traitor Michael Collins is coming this way. He drinks with his running dogs even now, down the road at the Four Alls in Woodfield. He drinks Clonakilty Wrastler beer with his family and escort while the blood of patriots he killed cries out for vengeance. The men he murdered with borrowed British 18 pounders call from their graves but there are not the men here to do anything about it." The contemptuous sneer was back in Achilleas voice and, in truth, it wasn't that forced. Her opinion of the fighting ability here in Ireland wasn't very high, it didn't matter which of the factions was concerned. They spend all their time singing wild pugnacious songs, and swilling beer. It was no wonder the British had held the place for all those centuries. Her measured shake of the head wasn't an act either.
"And how do you know that? Perhaps The Big Fella hisself told you?"
"In a manner of speaking, his escort asked the way at a local inn and the men there made sure we heard. They at least know their duty. Do you? Or will you just sit here and sing your rebel songs instead?"
There was more muttering and shuffling of feet. Eventually one man, braver than the rest, spoke up. "So what is this escort that surrounds The Big Fella then?"
"One motorcycle, ridden by a scout leader, a Crossley tender armed with a Lewis machine gun and eight men with rifles, a Leyland-Eight touring car with Michael Collins himself in it, and an armored car with a Vickers gun in a turret."
"And how do we take the armored car out lassie? Or you think we should wave at it while they fire that Vickers gun?"
"We have mines, three of them. They must pass through the crossroads here. We lay the mines in the crossroads. With you and the men from Bandon, there'll be three dozen of us with rifles. Three dozen against eight? That should be odds enough even for you."
More muttering and movement, a hostility that made Achillea remind herself to watch her back in the upcoming engagement. No matter, the risk was one she had to take.
"But the riflemen are free Irishmen, Collins may have signed that treaty but we should shoot good Irishmen for his crime? Seems not right to me?"
"You don't have to. You just shoot over their heads. Pin them down, I'll finish Collins."
"And how will you do that? Slap his face?"
"With this." Achillea put a heavy Colt automatic on the bar beside her.
"To carry a gun is one thing, to use it another. You know how to use that?" The man supped from his pint.
Achillea said nothing, but her hand moved and an explosion shook the room. The man who spoke to her looked shocked as well he might. He was holding the shattered handle of a beer mug with the contents of the exploded glass covering his shirt.
"Aye Lady, you can shoot. Right boys, what the Lady says makes sense. We got a chance to get The Big Fella, one that won't come back. Get your rifles and head out for the crossroads." He stopped by the bar to mop the beer from his face. "You took one devil of a chance Lady, speaking like that to good Irishmen."
Achillea looked at him, with almost complete disinterest. "I think not."
The Crossroads, Bal na mBlth, West Cork, Irish Free State
The ambush had been set up where an elevated bank overlooked the main road. Achilleas estimate had been right, there were some three dozen men spread out along the bank and the three mines had been laid along the road, their wires connected back to a box held by Commander Deasy, the man whose glass she had shot out. Then, the men had settled down to wait until Collins and his convoy drove past. The evening ground on and the light began to fade. Hidden in the ditch with a single companion, one who had been carefully selected although not to guard her back as he'd been told, Achillea knew that those men would be slipping away as their nerves got the better of their fervor. That was good, the fewer men around to see what was happening the better. That was why everything had been set up for late twilight, when people's sight would be at its worst. Her act in the pub had been finely judged, humiliate them enough to make them come out, alienate them enough to make them leave. Just a few more minutes and Deasy would give up, disconnect the mines and slip away as well.
The Convoy, Bal na mBlth, West Cork, Irish Free State
Michael Collins looked at his watch, casually, not wishing to draw attention to the move or suggest that time was important. It was already around eight, dusk was drawing in fast. It had been stressed that the later he arrived the better so hed been slowing down progress, standing drinks for his escort, stopping to greet the people who had waved him through their streets. The truth of it was that he suffering mentally and physically. He had a cold, a bad one and his stomach was playing the very devil with him. He could still work up enthusiasm for the Irish cause but he found it hard to concentrate. The task of running the civil war that had erupted in the Free State was beyond him now. Until very recently, he hadn't known why hed felt so strange. It had been a British officer of all people who had explained it to him. He knew, though, that the explanation had been given, stunning though it was, had only been part of the truth. The rest was that he was tired, deathly tired. Sick of the politics, sick of the fighting, sick of the wretched civil war. Sick of people who could not accept that getting most of what they wanted was better than getting none. The real truth was, he wanted out and he was going to get out. One way or another.
He looked at Emmet Dalton, commander of the Cork region's Free State troops, sitting in the car beside him. He'd made the people who'd contacted him promise that there would be no bloodshed. He didn't expect the promise would be kept, not completely, but there would be an effort not to kill. Ireland had seen too much bloodshed, to much pointless killing. And that brought Michael Collins back to his first thought. He was sick of it all.
Suddenly, the sound of the motorcycle up ahead was broken by shots, a wild fusillade from Republican riflemen in the hills above the valley. This wasn't the first ambush Dalton had been caught in and he knew the drill. Clear the killing zone, debus and then attack. So, his order was immediate and, he knew, the right one. "Drive like hell!".
Then, to Daltons shock, Collins countermanded the order. Beside him, Collins knew exactly what he was doing. He had to stop the convoy in this crossroads, where they would be under sporadic fire from riflemen who were hundreds of yards away. There was little chance of hitting anything at this range. So, Collins yelled out the order hed prepared. "Stop! Jump out and we'll fight them."
Dalton leapt from the car and ran over to where the eight riflemen were sheltering behind the Crossley tender and started to direct their fire. The armored car had moved up as well, running over the disconnected mines and firing long bursts at the almost-invisible riflemen high up on the ridge. All the attention on both sides was concentrated on that armored car and the men around the Crossley tender. Michael Collins in his car was almost forgotten.
Not by Achillea and her companion. They were only a few feet from the car and, to the man with her, it seemed as if the plan had worked to perfection. He started to chamber a round in his rifle, only to see Achillea staring at him with utter contempt.
"Have you never handled a Lee-Enfield before? Here, let me show you." She took the weapon out of his hands before he could object, chambered the round then fired it point-blank into the man's head. He hadn't been chosen for his military skills, but because he looked a lot like Michael Collins. After being hit by a hollow-point .303 in the head, nobody would ever know the difference.
Collins felt himself being grabbed and hauled out of the car. Achillea was already stripping her victim, Collins removed his own uniform and put on civilian clothes while Achillea dressed the dead man in Collins uniform. It was less than two minutes between the time she fired the rifle and the two of them making their escape through the undergrowth. It was only three minutes more before they heard Daltons anguished voice.
"Lord have mercy on us, they've killed The Big Fella!"
Beggar's Bush Barracks, Dublin, Three Months Later
"Help yourself to a cigarette"
Childers had hardly noticed the man slip though the open door, or noticed him place a golden cigarette case open on the table with a matching vesta case down next to it. "A drink too if you wish." The hip flask was a good stout pewter item bound in leather and of generous capacity, the stranger took a small nip and placed it too on the table.
"Who the hell are you?" Robert Erskin Childers was usually a rather urbane man, his rudeness was out of character, but under the circumstances not unreasonable.
"Hawkes the name, James Hawke" said the man quietly.
"What are you English?"
"Oh aye, in a manner of speaking." Hawke affirmed.
"Intelligence - spy" Childers grunted "I thought I smelled something foul. So this is my final interrogation is it then?"
"No, no interrogation. Officially, well officially-unofficially, if you take my meaning, my presence here is purely as an observer on behalf of certain parties in London. But that isn't why I am here, here in this room."
"So then why? I've little time to waste Major Hawke" Childers voice was flat and cold.
"Training will out. Who, What, Why we all know Where." Hawke smiled "I could say I preferred the company in here to drinking poteen and stewed tea with the sorry lot of vultures out there, and I'd not be lying. But in truth, I have rather enjoyed your books and thought some company in your last minutes might be welcome. I'll leave if you wish."
"No, stay, you can take my place if you wish." Childers showed the first sign of humor "This isn't the way I expected things to end. Not a firing squad. A knife in the back or a bullet from an assassin perhaps. This just seems wrong, Major."
"Not the only thing either. This century has not gotten off to a very good start I'm afraid." Hawke sighed and helped himself to a second snort from the flask.
"I'd beg to differ with you there Major, Ireland is free, and that is a fine fresh start to any era, and the rest hasn't been so bad" he reflected.
"Ever the optimist I see sir, from my side of this table the last twenty years have been nothing but a string of blunders large and small." Hawke raised a thumb. "South Africa a mess from one end to the other, yes?"
"Oh yes" agreed Childers "I can hardly deny you that."
"No you ca'nt the Arme Blanche book was quite good, but I have a bone to pick you with over German Influences on British Cavalry. So The Boers" he lifted a fore finger "China, one glorious blunder on the heels of and other, believe me I was in Peking waiting for relief". Hawke shuddered. "Then we have 1905 and if the Russians and Japanese didn't make a right pig's breakfast out of that ha!" the middle finger joined the count. "Billy Two Foolish, kept stoking the fires of idiocy with Agadir and so forth. Dreadnought, lovely ship a pity about the Naval Race. Curragh. Sarajevo now theres a blunder that would be funny if the results werent so dreadful, assassin and victim both in the wrong place at the wrong time and yet still meet each other! August 14 of course and everything since has been nothing but one big fouled hawse right up to this very second."
"You make a good case for the British Empire Major, but Ireland is free, theres my point and youve not addressed it sir" chided Childers.
"For the Empire? You were at the Dardenelles werent you? I had the misfortune to be Ian Hamiltons man ashore under Hunter-Bunter so I can say with some authority a good portion of Ireland suffered there, whatever happened elsewhere, or have you forgotten the poor old Dunsters? As for 1916 good grief man! Was ever a mistaken enterprise like the Easter business here?"
"Now, tactically you have the right of it Major Childers sat up and lent forwards but strategically it laid the foundations for all that has followed. Ireland gained the heroes to drive the struggle, and in putting down the Rising, Britain refreshed the Irish memory of oppression. I dont say it was the only way or even the best, but Ireland needed a catalyst and the 16 was that and all a shame so few are left now from the Post Office. Poor Michael."
Childers called the guard at that door, the Father is here "You'd best come away now sir" he added to Hawke.
"A moment" begged Hawke and turned back to Childers. "Now sir, take a swig of that whiskey for the spirit of life and take those cigarettes for the Firing Party, youll look like a Prince." He lent in close "But never pity The Big Fella, it was his gun that put you here and he's very sorry for it, and the fifteen shillings he owes you."
Childers eyes flew open
"Aye" continued Hawke in a hurried whisper "Michael Collins sends his sympathy, thanks, regards and regrets, and to say America is everything you told him it was. He wanted out Mister Childers, but no one would let him go, so some friends of mine took him away to a new life no betrayals. We lost a painful thorn, he lost nothing he wanted anymore but his friends. It was a fair deal all round, which is more than you have here sir. Good bye." This last said aloud, Hawke gathered his things and walked out.
Ten minutes later the two mens eyes met across the parade ground of Beggars Bush Barracks, and as the Free Irish soldiers turned away to light their gifted smokes, James Hawkwood strode off in search of a cab.