The Nationalists.

CHAPTER 22

Tony leaned over the railing of the White Star liner as she left Queenstown bound for New York. A tricolour blew in the breeze at the helm of the ship. His heart was very heavy.

Crowds lined the decks waving goodbye to those on shore. Many had tears in their eyes. The steep waves of the Atlantic were beginning to heave the ship up and down, but Tony remained where he was, and wondered for the millionth time where it had all gone wrong.

His love was dead. Angela. Life didn't seem worth living?

Killed in a skirmish in the closing days of the Civil War. He hadn't been able to save her. In the end she too had given her life for her version of a free Ireland, despite her beliefs being at odds with Tony's. He wished he'd tried harder to convince her. He was a highly trained journalist, with strong negotiation skills, honed by years of experience, but still he hadn't managed to convince her to his way of thinking.

Fucking Irish politics, he thought bitterly.

He remembered their last encounter, the way her eyes danced, the sweet curl of her ever-smiling lips.

It wasn't a totally happy memory. They had argued.

Bitterly.

"They gave up the north, Tony," she had said. "What kind of Treaty was that? Pearse would turn in his grave."

"You don't know that, Angel."

Her eyes had flashed. "I do," she exclaimed vehemently. "Tony, this is driving us apart...don't you see that?"

"I can't see why you're so driven on this. Collins claimed that it is a stepping-stone to a Republic. Can't you see that?"

Her eyes were downcast. Sad. She said nothing.

He tried another tack. "In years to come they'll do away with that Oath of Allegiance...mark my words. Are you listening, Angel?"

"I'm listening."

"But not hearing," he said angrily.

Her eyes flashed with anger of her own. "This whole Treaty is wrong," she said. "Dead wrong. Why should Ireland have to pay war costs to England? Swear an Oath to their Crown. I'd rather be dead," she spat.

He was taken aback with her venom. Where was the woman he had fallen in love with? Why couldn't he get through to her?

He wanted to plead with her. To beg, almost. Pride held him back.

"Is this it?" he asked plaintively. "Is this how everything ends?"

"You should have stayed with journalism, Tony." Her voice had softened, and a tear glistened in the corner of her eye.

"Angel...", he began, but paused when she held up her hand. She put her finger over his lips to silence his words. Puzzled he waited.

She removed her finger and leaning forward gave him a lingering kiss, before pulling back and saying: "Enough. Goodbye, Tony."

He had lost her.

It showed in every fibre of her being.

Angered he watched her go. His anger dissipated as soon as it had appeared. He waited for her to look back.

She didn't.

He wanted to follow her. He felt paralysed. Was this how things ended? Love?

Perhaps she needed time. He consoled himself with the thought that she would return. When she had time to think.

Time however had run out for both of them. Time was their enemy. Time would run out for many an Irishman and woman during the Civil War.

The ship was picking up speed. Increasing its knots.

Yards from Tony, another man looked longingly at the land he had grown up in. How had things degenerated to this? he asked himself. He too felt bitter.

Ireland was his land.

What was so wrong in wanting a free country? Why couldn't his superiors in the church have taken a more hard-line approach? Why did they always have to sit on the bench?

Troy's heart was very heavy.

He was leaving his land behind. He'd grown up in Ireland, and had spent most of his life there, except for periods when he had been training for the priesthood and had went to live in both Italy and Israel. On shore people were waving from the harbour of Queenstown.

He felt the first stirrings of seasickness as the ship moved in motion with the stormy waves. He stayed on deck.

He glanced around. Surprise registered in his eyes as he recognised Tony McAnthony.

The recognition was mutual.

Both men nodded.

Tony smiled sadly. "Ironic isn't it, Father. She won her independence and freedom and now we're both leaving."

Troy had to agree. "Is Angela not going with you?"

A film of pain crossed Tony's face. "Didn't you hear, Father. She's dead."

The shock registered in Troy's countenance. He had liked that young woman. "How did that happen? And when?

"Eight months ago now," Tony said reflectively. "She was killed in the Knockmealdown Mountains with Liam Lynch."

"The republican?" Troy asked, immediately blessing himself and muttering a silent, final prayer. The battle over the Knockmealdowns had been one of the last actions of the Civil War, the priest realised. What rotten luck!

Tony nodded.

Both men were silent for a few moments. The shoreline was becoming distant. People had started to clear the decks and go to their cabins below. "And you, Father. What's your story? Why are you leaving?

"The hierarchy didn't like my rebellious thinking. They decided to transfer me."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be, Tony. I'm better off out of it. They've given me a new parish in New Jersey."

"Sounds off the beaten track?" Tony commented.

Troy smiled grimly. "They want me out of the way, I suppose. Too outspoken for them...anything to shut me up."

Both men fell silent again. The bow of the ship cut into the ocean waves, slicing them apart. The rise and fall of the ship was now very noticeable. Deckhands scurried about performing various tasks. The thoughts of both men turned to the new land - America. Scores of Irish people had already made the same journey.

America beckoned. Exile!

AUTHOR'S NOTE: WATCH OUT FOR BOOK TWO ENTITLED: EXILE. IF YOU HAVE ENJOYED THIS STORY PLEASE CONSIDER LEAVING A REVIEW ON AMAZON. THANK YOU. PRINTED EDITION CONTAINS THE PITBOYS, A SHORT STORY OF IRISH REBELLION.