1972 by Morgan Llywelyn Page A

his eyes, but no one paid any attention. Many were weeping that day.
    I N spite of the nationwide outpouring of emotion, Operation Harvest brought an end to any support by the Irish government for the anti-partition campaign. Speaking in the Dáil on January 6, Eamon de Valera said, “To allow any military body not subject to Dáil Éireann to be enrolled, organised and equipped is to pave the way to anarchy and ruin.” 3
    Many Irish people agreed with him. “At best,” one veteran of 1916 told another in the Bleeding Horse Pub in Dublin’s Camden Street, “the border campaign was an exercise in bravado. At worst it was damned irresponsible.”

    The taoiseach, John Costello, spoke with great sadness on Radio Éireann about the lives that had been lost at Brookeborough. Ireland could have but one government and one army, he stressed, adding that the police had been instructed to round up all known republican activists under the Offences Against the State Act.
    U RSULA Halloran was a light sleeper. She claimed to keep one ear open so she could hear her animals. Swollen like ripe fruit, broodmares and dairy cows were dreaming milky dreams and awaiting the miracle of birth.
    On the night of January seventh Ursula retired earlier than usual, worn out with tension. All week the broadcasters had kept up a steady drip-feed of items about the Brookeborough raid. Ursula did not need anyone to tell her that Barry was involved. She simply knew.
    Sometime after midnight she heard a startled whinny in the broodmare barn nearest the house. She rolled off the bed in one smooth motion, flung her coat over her nightgown, put her pistol in the pocket, and ran barefoot down the stairs. When she switched on the electric light bulb in the barn the mares blinked in their loose boxes. Only one did not stretch her neck over the half door in greeting. The big bay mare stayed at the back of her stall, apparently watching something out of sight below the door.
    â€œWho’s there?” Ursula called. “I warn you, I have a gun.”
    â€œSo do I,” said a voice.
    Barry stood up with the rifle in his hands.
    Ursula gave a sharp intake of breath. “Home safe, thank God,” she murmured.
    A faint smile flickered across Barry’s face. His mother’s hands were shaking. To steady them she unlatched the door and swung it open. “Come out here and let’s have a look at you.”
    When the tall young man stepped from the stall she reached out to hug him, then hesitated. His face had changed more than she would have thought possible in so short a time. The boyish softness had melted away, revealing an aquiline nose, jutting cheekbones, and a strong chin. Wind and weather had scoured his freckles. His eyes were set deep in their sockets.

    In the shadowy barn Barry looked dangerous.
    Ursula drew an unsteady breath. “What are you doing out here in the middle of the night?”
    â€œI thought the house might be watched.”
    â€œIt isn’t.”
    â€œHow can you tell?”
    â€œI just know.”
    Barry nodded. Within the family Ursula was famous for “knowing.”
    She gingerly took him by the arm—half expecting him to pull away from her—and drew him into the cobbled yard. “You can see for yourself, there’s no one here but us. Why, you’re shivering! You’re as cold as well water. Come into the house and I’ll light a fire in your room. Quietly now, we don’t want to wake Eileen. You know how nosy she is.”
    In his bedroom Barry leaned the rifle against the wall and sat down heavily on the bed, watching while his mother lit a fire in the grate. When the blaze took hold she asked Barry, “What are those stains on your coat?”
    â€œJust stains.”
    â€œThey look like … they are, they’re blood. You tried to wash them off, didn’t you? Then smeared them with dirt?”
    He made no effort to deny