THE RETURN OF MAJOR O'NEILL
This is a novel about life in the East Cork countryside during the growing conflict and violence in 1920's Ireland, by a perhaps more unbiased pen than usual. The history is sound, the language is not overly elaborate, the plot is strong.
The author, Gerard van der Puil, a Dutchman, ran a shipbuilding yard on Great Island, Co. Cork from the early 1960s to the mid 1980s. Dad passed away in 2012, at which stage my siblings and I had become aware that he had also written the odd novel; three in fact. The first of these is “The Return of Major O’Neill”. The book briefly saw the public light-of-day when it was published under the pseudonym of Frederick MacMullan. My father had his reasons for not using his given name, but looking back today I would be quick to opine that these were trivial. An ISBN number (0 86116 890 9) was issued and five or six copies were printed, well… typed-copied-and-bound, by a company that went by the name of New Horizon in Bognor Regis before they were wound up.
Dad's second book was lost at manuscript stage, and his third book, “The Other Side of Ireland” was published by Olympia Publishers, London in 2012. Both publications were of course vanity projects. However, and distorted as my judgment may be by being Gerard’s eldest child, in my opinion “The Return of Major O’Neill” is a good read, and is deserving of a far wider audience than it has had till now. In fact, I think it has enough merit to be more than a vanity publishing project, but alas Lilliput did not agree.
So, rather than letting the story sleep on on my hard drive, I shall try to share it, chapter by chapter, over the coming weeks via this blogging platform. I think people who read it will be able to comment. That's usually the case, and I'm not going to try to switch it off. Be kind!
CHAPTER INDEX
PROLOGUE
In the year 1840 when Henry O'Neill's father was born, Queen Victoria ascended to the Throne of England. Thirty nine years earlier, the turbulent history of the relationship between England and Ireland had come to its final phase; the Act of Union. It made Ireland forever an integral part of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, or so it must have seemed to the nine year old O'Neill when, under the watchful eye of his nanny, he was allowed to contribute his little share to the goodwill, the loyalty and the cheers with which the Queen was received on her official visit to Ireland in 1849.There were problems in Ireland at the time. Hunger, which had been endemic in the country for as long as people could remember, broke out at an unprecedented scale in 1845 and reduced the population from eight and a half million to six and a half million over a period of four years. Food, but also security of tenure, or rather the absence of it, for the millions of small tenant farmers were the existential and extraordinary problems of daily country life. It was the root of all social unrest and the feeding ground of the radical and anti-English Fenian movement.
Yet despite hunger, poverty and landlords, Fenianism was little more than a ripple on the tide of the history of 19th century Ireland. The 19th century was on the side of the Queen of England. When she died in 1901, her British Empire had reached the pinnacle of its glory and the full rewards of its industry and trade. Irish regiments – and Scottish, Welsh, Indian, Burmese – were standing guard over it in the four corners of the world.
In Ireland itself progress had been made. The problems of the tenant farmers were on their way to a solution and famine seemed something of a past age. The Church of Ireland had been disestablished and the city-dwelling middle classes, both Catholic and Protestant, argued about Home Rule. Passionate arguments at times, particularly in Parnell's time, but nevertheless peaceful and respectable as was befitting of the Queen's loyal subjects. In fact, at the turn of the century, Ireland was further removed from revolution than ever before in its colourful history.
This was the Ireland in which Henry O'Neill had grown up. He had been born in India in 1870. The reason for this accident of birth was his mother’s decision that it was better to put up with the heat and inconvenience of an Indian garrison town, than to spend her marriage alone, alternating between her parents' house in Cork and her brother-in-law's estate on the river Blackwater.
Her Indian courage lasted four years and three children, until, while on leave in Ireland, she persuaded her husband to buy a house just outside Midleton. She never left Ireland again. Thus, while Henry’s father continued to hunt tigers and natives in distant lands, she devoted herself to his children. It had made a reasonably happy childhood for Henry and his younger siblings.
Henry did not have the restlessness of his father. Family tradition required that he went to school in England and pursued an army career. It had seemed to Henry the right thing to do, but whether it was the gentleness that he inherited from his mother, or simply a lack of single-mindedness is difficult to say; his military career was not a great success.
At the age of twenty-five Henry O’Neill married the only daughter of a well-respected local landowner, and when his new father-in-law died a few years later he was quite happy to retire from the army in order to manage his wife's estate. Henry realised quickly that the position of the landlord was changing rapidly in favour of the tenant. Whenever possible, he did not renew expiring leases, but instead, under the terms of the 1903 Land Act, sold out to those tenants who chose to remain. The money paid out by the Government was spent on stock, land improvement and machinery, to transform the remaining five hundred acres of which he gradually obtained vacant possession, into a prosperous and modern farm. He became an active member of the Farmers' Cooperative Society and was one of the founder members of the Imokilly Cooperative Creamery. His willingness to explain to others modern methods and his concern for the general good of farmers made him a respected member of a farming community which seemed on the road to a better future.
Yet the Ireland to which Henry O'Neill returned in May 1919 was very different from the country that he had left early in 1915 to go to war. The War had changed everything in Europe. Monarchies had vanished and new political structures had been born. Power had shifted, declining in one place, rising in another; sometimes for the better, sometimes for the worse.
The Irish had not felt very strongly about the War. However, on the English public, the invasion of Belgium, the heroic resistance of their King and the plight of its people under the heel of the German boot, had a profound influence. This was in fact the final reason why Henry O'Neill had left his family and farm to take up again his father's profession of military service.
To the Irish, the European continent was remote and to them there was nothing unusual about small countries being over-run by large foreign armies. The Irish that actually went to war, and there were many, did so, generally not out of a sense of duty to the cause of a free Europe, but simply for regular Army pay and three square meals a day.
In the years preceding the War, the extreme Irish republican element represented by Sinn Fein had not been able to make much political impression on the widespread and moderate Home Rule movement. Sinn Fein’s glorification of armed rebellion mixed with ideas of socialist revolution were essentially alien to the conservative, Roman Catholic philosophy of the agrarian population which dominated Ireland. A small extreme group had decided, right from the beginning of the War, that England's difficulty would be their chance, and that, in an armed rising they should stake their claim for an independent Irish Republic. Vague arrangements had been made for German assistance, but at the crucial moment the arms shipment was discovered and the vessel had to be scuttled outside Cork Harbour.
When the rebellion came, on Easter Monday 1916, the citizens of Dublin received it with indifference, if not with mild condemnation. The Irish were well used to rebellions. It was part of their long history, and if there was condemnation, there was also some respect for the handful of boys who took on the might of the British Army without hope of support either from the Irish people or from outside.
The Irish did not quite understand the rebellion. But even less could they understand the uncompromising accusation of high treason made by the English press and shared by English public opinion. It was only the vicious reaction of the British Army, which, in the aftermath, created sympathy for the rebels and their cause. The fifteen executed leaders who had, so far, been colourful idealistic eccentrics, became national heroes overnight. Their execution was not the first political blunder of an English Government in Ireland; nor the last.
Henry O'Neill's instinctive reaction to the rebellion was one of shame. He had gone to war at an age which would have excused him comfortably for staying at home. He went out of a sense of duty towards his country, his family and the tradition it stood for. It was natural for him to accept the Allied cause as morally good. His feelings had been amply confirmed by the atrocities committed by the German armies in the occupied parts of Belgium and France. As an Irishman fighting amongst Englishmen against a common enemy, he felt embarrassed by what had happened in Dublin. He did not understand how a few hundred Irishmen at home could fire on British troops while tens of thousands of other Irishmen were, together with the youth of France and Britain, engaged in a deathly struggle for the future of Europe.
Nevertheless, despite Henry O’Neill’s feelings, the fact was that the Irish were more concerned about their own future than that of Europe. They had been prepared to support the War for various reasons, but they were never really committed to it. This became very clear in 1918 when conscription was applied to Ireland or rather, an unsuccessful attempt was made.
Conscription had been introduced earlier in England, Scotland and Wales. It was never popular but the Government could be forgiven for forcing it through Parliament. In France, conscription had been an accepted practice long before the War. How else could a British Government have convinced its principal ally that it was prepared to make the maximum effort to bring the War to a victorious end.
To the Irish, conscription was totally unacceptable. They had enlisted, voluntarily, in large numbers and for their own reasons. But they would not be coerced into a British Army, and opposed conscription to a man. The opposition was led by the same group of Republicans who had been active but unsuccessful in the 1916 rebellion. This time they won without firing a single shot and in May 1918 conscription for Ireland was abandoned.
Sinn Fein, unable to make any impression in 1914, thus, via the martyrs provided by the British Army in 1916 and the defeat of conscription in 1918, on the close of the War became a strong political movement.
Before the War, the main political force in Southern Ireland had been the Irish Parliamentary Party. The principal aim of the Party was Home Rule for Ireland. It pursued its aim chiefly in the Parliament of Westminster. Although its parliamentarian methods were at times somewhat unorthodox, it was nevertheless a peaceful movement.
However, the Home Rule movement had to struggle right from the beginning with the different attitude in the Northern part of the country. The North was mainly Protestant and industrial. They did not feel any less Irish than the South but the idea of an independent Ireland in which they would be a minority in a Catholic and agrarian State, did not appeal to them. They made no secret of their feelings and in 1912 had openly armed to resist Home Rule by force.
It would have been difficult for any British Government to force upon the Protestants of the North a Home Rule Bill which they did not want. Evasion of the difficulty automatically led to partition. Before the War, partition might have been acceptable to both parts of the country. However, the House of Lords blocked the Home Rule Bill of 1912 and when the Bill was finally passed in 1914, the outbreak of hostilities deferred its implementation for an indefinite period.
After the War it was different. The Irish Parliamentary Party had been shattered by events during the War, and Sinn Fein, basking in the glory of martyrdom and success was not satisfied with Home Rule for the South. Their aim was, and always had been, an independent Republic for the whole of Ireland and they were not in a mood to settle for less.
The British General Election of 1918 brought a massive victory for Sinn Fein in Ireland; except in the North. In Britain, it brought back the Coalition Government under Lloyd George with a majority of Conservatives who had traditionally opposed Home Rule and had strong political and emotional ties with the Unionists in the North of Ireland. Never had a political solution of the Irish question been more difficult to achieve.
To Henry O'Neill, returning from France and out of touch with Irish politics, the question was still simple. Home Rule for the South and Union for the North would have worked before the war; why could it not work after the war? He considered himself a farmer and felt at home in the agrarian South. But he had no animosity towards the North, whose Protestant faith he shared and whose political aims he was prepared to respect.
The seventy-three Sinn Fein members who were elected in the 1918 General Election to the British House of Commons, instead of taking their seats in the Westminster Parliament, formed themselves into a separate Irish Parliament and declared an independent Irish Republic. At first the English Government was inclined to see it as an Irish practical joke. However, when at the same time the Republican Volunteers started a campaign of assassination of members of the Royal Irish Constabulary, it could no longer be ignored and military measures had to be taken.
The repression that ensued, in its turn, gave rise to increased anti-British feeling, providing a further feeding ground for extreme Republican ideas. In the escalation of the conflict that followed, all the misery and oppression that the Irish lower classes had endured for seven centuries broke to the surface in a wild whirlpool of emotion and violence.
1. DONOGHMORE HOUSE
Whatever sterling qualities Major Henry O'Neill might have had, he was not much of a sailor and therefore the strong South Westerly winds had obliged him to remain in his berth ever since the vessel had left Fishguard for the night crossing to Cork. He had not slept much during the passage and when awake had been wholly preoccupied with his efforts to come to terms with a seasickness that the rolling and pitching steamer was inflicting on him. There was in fact little else on his mind than the wish to be relieved of the distressing malady. It was for this reason, as he explained to himself, that he was glad when the vessel at last passed the lighthouse at Roches Point and entered the calmer waters of the Lower Harbour, and not because he was coming home. With that explanation he was of course only trying to suppress the mixture of excitement, expectation and anxiety that he was feeling about the things that might lay ahead.
It was not the first time that he was struggling with these emotions. They had been there at other times during the last few weeks, when travelling back through France and during his stay in London where his retirement from the Army had to be arranged. Usually he had managed to dismiss them as mere sentimentality while telling himself that there was nothing to expect and nothing to hope for except an empty house and a quiet, uneventful life. And again he tried on this May morning in the year 1919 to ignore the jumble of emotions that were rising up inside him. But it was under the circumstances an impossible task. With the miraculous disappearance of the seasickness and the ship making the portside turn to pass close under the shore of Queenstown, he could not resist his excitement any longer and went up to the open deck to look at the country and at the past that he had been trying so hard to exclude from his mind. Before his eyes was the town, sprawling around the grey mass of the new gothic Cathedral and up the steep hill beyond. The fresh morning sunshine gave it an air of festivity, almost of welcome and slowly he became content to see it all again and unchanged.
But the pleasure did not last long. After passing the promenade with its graceful band stand, its guns and tall flagpole, the sight of the railway station and the quay brought his thoughts sharply back to the imminent end of the voyage and the possible meeting on the quay in Cork. He had sent a cable from London to announce his return and to ask his father to send the gig out to meet him. It had not occurred to him at the time that father would have been duly and separately informed and might feel compelled to come in person to welcome him, but this was the arrangement now. Strangely, the prospect of meeting his father on the quayside in Cork in half an hour's time made him suddenly wish that he could magically reverse his decision to return home and instead disappear into some distant and foreign country. The satisfaction that his father had continually demonstrated since his reenlistment now four years ago had always been somewhat annoying. But to receive the full vigour of this paternal pride immediately on arrival would be hard work.
It would be worse if Julia came. Her grief about James must be as profound as his own, yet the courage that her few letters had shown was almost unnatural. It put his own courage to shame and left him wondering how he would ever be able to face up to her and to the tragedy that they had to share. Thus, with the ship finally approaching the quayside, he had become irritated by his own thoughts and by the problems that a reunion with his father and his daughter-in-law would have, and it was a relief when he discovered Jimmy Keefe waiting for him, with the same horse and the same vehicle that had brought him out to the steamer more than a year ago after his last home leave. When he walked down the gangway, Jimmy rushed forward with as much speed as his age and dignity would permit and with happiness all over his face.
“Welcome home, Sir. We thought you would never return, with the War after finishing in November and no sign of you.”
For the first time that morning a smile appeared on Henry O'Neill's face. The simple words from the old groom gave him back some of his old self-assurance. He wanted to reply and thank him, but before he could find the right words Jimmy went on.
“Captain Carey came back long ago and has been hunting. And Sean from Michael's sister and him a sergeant now. And two lads from Lisgoold who tell us all about it, like how they pushed the Huns out of France and that.”
Together they went back up the gangway for the luggage and as Jimmy began to busy himself with the suitcases, his flow of words stopped. When the luggage had been stowed, and they had climbed into their seats, Henry O'Neill asked, “How is Donoghmore House?”
It was more a question to please Jimmy and to get him talking again. Jimmy seemed to understand it. “Great altogether, Sir. The fields are in good shape. The ploughing is done and they will be setting the barley soon.”
“Is that not a bit late?”
“I suppose it is,” said Jimmy reluctantly, and by way of apology he added, “but the ploughing was late before that.”
Sensing that barley was at the moment not the best thing to discuss, Jimmy changed the subject. “I brought the two hunters into the paddock field this morning. I said to myself you might like to see them. The season is over of course, but just the same, it is nice to have them around.”
“They have not been ridden since Christmas a year ago,” observed Henry as much to himself as to his groom.
“Indeed they have not,” replied Jimmy promptly, “and then it was only a few weeks that they hunted.”
It was about fifteen miles to Donoghmore House. They followed the main road to Midleton, going left just after passing Carrigtwohill. The conversation with his old groom had cheered him up but after a while he became moody and silent again looking at the country around him and with a renewed doubt creeping up inside him whether he would manage to start all over again and find back the peace of mind and life that had been so good before the war broke out.
Jimmy was too much of a servant to break the brooding silence and they reached the main Midleton to Fermoy road without a further word being exchanged. They followed the main road for a short distance and then went left and up a hill, slowing the horse down to a walk. It was less than a mile to go now. The fields on either side of the lane became familiar. The gates were still the same, only a bit older and more neglected. He recognised a place where they had, years ago, when following hounds, jumped the bank onto the road and out again into the field on the other side. It seemed as if it had happened in another world and in another life.
The May grass was beginning to show in the big field around the bend of the road. “McCarthy will be making hay there,” he mused to himself. In a month's time he would have to make hay as well. Why could life not be taken up again where it had been left four years ago? The land was still there, unchanged and untouched by the War. Perhaps it was just a question of time and after a while he himself would be like the land, unchanged and not touched by things that had happened in a different place.
When they turned off the road, through the familiar gate posts and past the gate lodge, he waved and smiled to Mrs. Keefe, who, hearing the trotting hooves on the hard surface of the road, had hurriedly come out through the half door to welcome him. The wheels made a light, lively sound in the fine gravel of the drive and finally came to a halt in front of the house. He descended from his seat, looked around for a few moments as if to assure himself that it was all still there and then walked slowly towards the front door. Before he had taken two steps the door was opened and Julia appeared, young, slender and tall. She looked beautiful and valiant, wearing a long black dress as if it was the uniform of her heroic widowhood. Memories flashed through his mind.
“Why, for God's sake, does she have to look so heroic? James looked heroic when he came to France, eager to show his new uniform to all the world and believing it made him invincible in battle. They all looked heroic, until they were battered to death, their bodies blown to pieces ....”
It stopped him for a second but then he regained his self-control and walked towards Julia. He wanted to take her hand but she stepped quickly forward and embraced him. It surprised and confused him. His resistance broke and all the emotions which had been pushed back for more than a year, welled up. He suddenly wanted to hold this young girl he hardly knew and cry and tell her about his loneliness but all he managed to say was, “I am sorry, I am sorry.”
It could have meant anything. Sorry for James. Sorry for her. Sorry for the coldness in his own heart and his inability to understand her grief. She held his head gently on her shoulder and it rested there until the faint scent of her hair and the slow beat of her heart touched his senses and began to whisper about beauty in a long forgotten past. He drew himself back, wanting to break the spell and while deliberately looking beyond her at the house he said, “I must go upstairs and change. We will talk later.”
She seemed to understand and nodded. “Your father will be here for lunch,” she said.
Entering the bedroom he could not prevent his thoughts from going back to his last leave, Christmas 1917, now a year and a half ago. The occasion had been the marriage of his only son James to Julia Stokes in London, after which he had returned with his wife to Ireland to spend Christmas at home.
The War had seemed irrelevant then. Something that was happening in a strange remote country, and in which, for reasons not fully understood, they had to participate. But it was only temporary. The War would end as certainly as it had begun and they would all be reunited. What an illusion it had proven to be. Three months later his wife had died of pneumonia. He had been absent at the funeral. Even if he had been able to obtain immediate leave, it might have taken him a week to get back to Ireland. As it was, his permit of leave arrived on the same day as the news of James' death.
He had spent three days finding James’ grave; a wooden cross stating his name, rank and regiment. They told him that his son had been very brave, leading his platoon in an attack. What they did not tell him was that they had sent him and his thirty men out against a German machine gun position, believing that it had been knocked out by the artillery. But it was not and three quarters of the platoon had been wiped out two minutes after having left the trenches.
He did not immediately get a renewed permit of leave, and as the days passed the wish to return home took the form of a duty, that he was glad to postpone. When leave came, he did not take it. “What was the purpose of looking after an estate which would now pass to a strange English girl because she shared his son's bed for two weeks?”
For some time, he seriously considered not returning to Ireland after the War, whenever that would end. His age however, forty eight years, made it unlikely that he could stay on in the Army. He had thought about joining a business firm in London, or going to America. But it was never much more than daydreaming in an attempt to escape the harsh facts of his situation in life. The birth of a grandson, however, put an end to whatever vague plans there were, and when his unit was finally demobilised, he had no other place to go to than Donoghmore.
He had never really liked the house. There had not been the same intimate relationship as the one he felt with the large red brick house, just outside Midleton, where he had grown up, and where his father still lived. Donoghmore House had always had too many other people. In the first place there was Mrs. Ludgate, his mother-in-law. She had lived in the house so much longer than he, that she dominated every part of it during the first fifteen years of his marriage to Elizabeth. Then there was the housekeeper. The two ladies, both much older, always believed that his young wife was in constant need of their advice.
During those first years of marriage, really only Elizabeth’s and his bedroom had offered them privacy. Later on he had arranged a library in the room next door and old Mrs. Ludgate had somehow understood that this would be their other sanctuary. The two rooms had become a home within the house for Elizabeth and himself. They had been very happy there in the first years of their marriage. And when the exuberance of the first years of love began to die down, it was only to make room for a deeper understanding of and dependence on each other. You do not realise your good fortune until it is gone, taken away by a common cold, developing into pneumonia, and buried under a grey stone in a churchyard.
He felt lost in his own house on the first day of his return from the War. After unpacking his chest, he went through his wardrobe to find a more suitable outfit than the uniform he was wearing. Everything was in perfect order; suits were brushed, shirts washed and ironed, shoes polished. It was obvious that somebody, probably the old housekeeper Miss Jennings, had looked after them, better than Elizabeth had ever done. It pleased him to such an extent that he began to whistle a tune while he changed into a tweed suit. Then he went downstairs to await the arrival of his father.
Now that the first excitement of coming home was over he began to look forward to meeting his father. After his wife had died so suddenly, he had gladly accepted his father's offer to look after the farm for as long as he was away in France. Admittedly, his father was not the most suitable person to run a farm, but it was better than engaging a steward, who would be a stranger to Julia. Moreover, his father seemed to be very fond of Julia, a feeling that Henry found a little difficult to share for the simple reason that he hardly knew the girl.
It would be incorrect to say that he did not love his father. But he often disagreed with him in the way the next generation disagrees with the previous. Although perhaps it was more than that. His father had never quite forgiven the Lord that he was born the second son of an Earl instead of the first , and his life could fairly be described as an effort to correct the error of his Maker. His birth had destined him for a military career and according to family tradition it had started as a young officer in the Irish Dragoons.
For thirty-two years, to be precise from 1858 until 1890, John James O'Neill had tried to win glory and reward on the battle fields, the racecourses and the clubs of the British Empire. At the end of his career he was Colonel of the Regiment, as his father had been thirty five years earlier. The difference was that the 3rd Earl of Dumbermere had simply bought the position whereas his second son John James had achieved it by sticking to Army life and avoiding scandal. It had however neither brought him a fortune nor a noble title in his own right. John James O'Neill put the blame for this, with some justification, on the increasing wealth and influence of trade and industry. A noble birth together with a military career and courage were no longer a sufficient passport to wealth.
On his retirement, John James finally rejoined his wife in the red brick house just outside Midleton. By that time, Henry had left the house to visit the Military College in England and their roles had been reversed; Henry away pursuing his Army career while his father stayed at home. Retirement had confirmed in the elder O'Neill the opinions and expectations that he had formed in his earlier life. But he now transferred these onto his son Henry, whom he not only expected to become Colonel of the Regiment but also to achieve his own unfulfilled ambitions of fortune and title, as well as high rank.
John James had been pleased with the marriage of Henry to Elizabeth Ludgate, only daughter of a local landowner. She was a nice girl, well-educated and with a good bit of land coming to her, a suitable partner to a successful Army career. When her father died and Henry decided to leave the Army to manage his wife's estate, John James O'Neill's disappointment was deeper than either Henry or his young wife could understand.
The realisation that he had failed his father's ambitions came only much later to Henry, and it created, for the first time in his life, compassion for his father. It came shortly after the death of old Mrs. O'Neill. Since then John James O'Neill had lived alone in the red brick house, with a housekeeper and a gardener, surrounded by a collection of lances, cavalry swords and prints of racehorses, with less illusion than when he started out in the world but enough to still want to change it.
This understanding of his father's failed ambition and the proximity of their houses, had brought father and son closer together. Now, coming down the stairs, to go to the drawing room, Henry could not help wondering how his father had always remained good natured and unflinchingly loyal to his Sovereign, notwithstanding the fact that life in general, and the British Empire in particular had not brought him what he had set out to achieve at the age of twenty. Neither had he, Henry, been able to fulfil any of the expectations that his father had had about him.
Coming downstairs, Henry found Julia in the dining room, checking the arrangements for lunch. When he entered she turned round to greet him. It was an awkward moment as their eyes met. There was a bond of kinship and shared grief between them, yet they hardly knew each other. In the cold formality of the dining room they stood there, shy and embarrassed about the spontaneous expression of emotion earlier in front of the house.
“Well, how are things?” he asked at last, as politely and as casual as he could manage.
“Reasonably well,” she replied. “We tried to manage as best as we could.” She smiled hesitantly as she was speaking. Her voice was pleasant, well-articulated and with a frankness that he had not expected.
“It must have been difficult,” he said vaguely.
“But your father has been very good, considering his age,” she continued. “The headman considers me an ignorant city girl and he is probably quite right. But he accepts what your father says. Of course your father could not go out and check the work or see for himself what had to be done, but I could, and together we kept some control.”
Henry O'Neill listened with surprise to the young woman, but before he had time to reply or to inquire further, there was the noise of carriage wheels in the gravel in front of the house and he had to leave the room.
As he was coming to the door, his father was just trying to get out of the carriage, helped by Jimmy Keefe. He rushed forward to help, noticing with some concern that his father had grown old; very much older than the man he remembered. They eagerly shook hands and utting his arm behind his father's back, he guided him into the house.
“Well, well,” said his father. “It is good to see you again. It took you a long time to come home.”
A warm and happy feeling came over Henry when he heard the familiar voice. He smiled and replied, “You have not changed a bit. Do you ever grow old?”
The emotions of the two men were hidden by the banality of their words. Each knew in the other the joy of the reunion, but was reluctant to show it otherwise than in the accepted form of words. They entered the drawing room, embarrassed by the extent of their feelings, and not knowing what more to say. To break the spell Henry began to look for the sherry and glasses. The old Colonel looked bemused at his son fumbling around the room. Finally he said, “The sherry is in the sideboard next to me. I presume that is what you are looking for.”
Henry apologised and, quite unnecessarily, explained that he had been away for some time and had lost touch with the domestic arrangements. He poured two glasses and they drank solemnly. Then they sat down, each one full of questions, but not knowing what to ask. His father finally broke the silence. “How was the War?”
It was asked in a casual way, just as if the only intention of the question was to keep the conversation going. Yet it was the inevitable, and at the same time the impossible question. How could anyone ever answer it? To his father the War meant stories by war correspondents in the local paper, grafted on the memories of Indian campaigns. To Henry it was the death of his wife and his son. And to a thousand other people it would be a thousand different things, each person knowing only his own war and not understanding the others. Anger flushed up in Henry about the stupidity of the question, but love for his father and joy about the reunion tempered it. Yet, the only answer he was able to give was, “Oh, very good I suppose. We won it.”
“Of course we won it!” said his father. “Did we ever lose one? Don't talk nonsense. What kept you in France so long? The armistice was in November last year and it is the beginning of May now.”
The spell of the reunion was broken and the emotions disappeared while Henry tried to explain in military terms the problems of transport, supplies, troop movements, railways, munition and all the other unheroic necessities of war with which he had struggled in the backrooms behind the lines ever since he arrived in France.
The thing was when he had volunteered for active service in 1915, he had been really too old, even as Captain in charge of a company of infantry recruits. So his part in the defeat of Germany had consisted mainly of the completion, checking, altering, signing and filing of thousands upon thousands of forms. There had been visits to the front, sometimes during heavy shelling and he had seen the carnage. His nearest encounter with the enemy had been during the Spring offensive of 1918 when the Germans broke through and his offices had to be evacuated in a hurry. But the Germans were stopped and three days later he was back in his office.
He did not tell his father about these things. Instead he tried to explain the problems of shipping a million men home. But soon he began to realise that what his father wanted to hear was something different. Something that corresponded to his ideas of the war, and above all, that what the old man wanted to hear, if it was only by hint or implication, was that his son had behaved in the family tradition, as an officer and gentleman, courageous in battle and an example to all others. But the fact was that he had not fired a single shot, nor had he seen a single German soldier, except as prisoner of war.
Just the same he felt that he had done all that his father could reasonably expect of him, only in another way. The winter had been particularly bad. He had worked long hours in cold and badly lit rooms. He had walked and ridden in lashing rain, his horse sinking to its hocks in the mud, finding out where and how supplies had got stuck and trying to meet impossible schedules. The mud had been the worst. Even an Irish farmer would not be able to imagine the extent of it. But how could he tell his father about these things. How could he explain that his fight had not been with the Germans but with mud and muddle.
Fortunately Julia came in to say that lunch was ready and during the meal war was not discussed. It was not a great problem because Julia kept the conversation going. “Your father has been very helpful on the farm. I don't know what we would have done without him.”
The old man was obviously pleased with the praise that the young woman gave him. “What good would a grandfather be, if he could not help when the men are away to war. Only a pity I was too old to go myself.”
Henry wishing to keep the conversation away from the War asked again questions about the farm. “How many acres are we setting in barley?”
“Oh, a lot,” replied his father vaguely. “With the prices being what they are, one must take advantage, must one not.”
“I am afraid,” said Julia gently, “that they did not manage to plough more than fifty acres. We had only two workhorses left after we stopped the mares in March. They are due to foal any day now and the foals are too valuable to put the mares at risk.”
“I wonder who will pay any money for half-bred horses in two or three years time,” said Henry half to himself.
“Why, the Army of course,” replied his father with surprise.
The reply annoyed Henry again intensely and he said with anger barely hidden in his voice. “Look father, the cavalry disappeared in 1914 and it will never come back. It has outlived its usefulness. Also in transport. The horse will disappear. The army of tomorrow will use lorries, motorcars and tanks.” He stopped as if wondering how to go on, but his father cut him short.
“Nonsense. As long as there will be an Army, there will be cavalry.” His father did not seem angry, but only amazed about his son's persistent lack of understanding of military affairs even after four years in active service.
Again, in an effort to get the conversation away from the war, Henry said to Julia, “you could have put the two hunters in front of a plough.”
“We thought of that, I know it would not have done the horses any harm, but grandfather and I felt that we had not yet become quite desperate enough to do that.”
It took a few minutes before he understood that they had spared the mares and the hunters only for his sake and he felt sorry for not appreciating their kindness to him, and he was relieved when his father suggested that Julia should show them the baby before he went home again. Julia was only too pleased to oblige and when she came down again with the child in her arms, she looked proud and happy, with that air of confidence about her that young mothers have when presenting their babies.
She placed the child resolutely into Henry's hands. She did not have any ulterior motives in doing so. She adored her son and presumed that everybody else would do so as well. In handing it to Henry she only wanted to show that she trusted him and was prepared to share her joy with those who were near her. But Henry was confused and irritated about the way in which the child was so suddenly thrust upon him. He held it for a while, not knowing what to do or what to say to this little human being who was the legal owner of Donoghmore Estate and would carry the family name into the far future.
Then the child, sensing that there was something unfamiliar about Henry, began to cry. Julia took him back and talked soothingly to him. “Shhh... don't cry. It is only your grandfather. It is not a stranger. Try to give him a smile....”
In the comforting arms of his mother the child quickly calmed down. But Henry continued to feel ill at ease about it. The conversation went on for a little while longer with the baby as the central subject of discussion, until at last the old Colonel took his leave.
After Henry had seen his father home, he went into the office. It was a rather grandiose name for a small room on the ground floor immediately to the right of the front door. It was called the office because there was a desk in which accounts and papers relating to the farm were kept. Before the War, Henry had kept fairly detailed accounts, not only registering income and outgoings, but trying to relate money received for certain farm products against expenditure on new or improved methods. After he had gone to France, Elizabeth had kept the books. She knew the farm intimately, and from the entries made by her, it had always been easy to work out how the farm had fared. During the war years, food prices had been high and a well-stocked and properly managed farm like Donoghmore had been making good profits.
The last time Henry had worked at the books was during his Christmas leave in 1917. He had, together with Elizabeth, taken out the approximate balance for the year and sitting behind the desk he remembered vividly how content and happy they had been. Elizabeth had started a new page in the book for the new year, and on reading the lines, a last witness to her presence in the house, he felt utterly lost, as the sole survivor of a terrible shipwreck, for some unknown reason washed ashore not in strange lands, but in his own house. Elizabeth's handwriting stopped half way down the page, about three weeks before her death. Her last entry was dated 3 March 1918, and was for the sale of twelve bullocks.
The next entry was in his father's handwriting, eight weeks later. It simply said, “Wages paid £72.” It did not say what bills had been paid or what labourers had been paid and for how many weeks. There were more entries like this, without any regularity, until they ceased in July. Turning the page, he found however on the next page, new entries in Julia's handwriting, starting on a Saturday in August 1918. There were full details of wages paid out on that Saturday, and similar entries for each subsequent pay day. In September, entries appeared for bills paid, stating not only the amount, but also the name of the supplier and a description of the goods. Another month later, receipts were listed and by November Julia was keeping records of every payment and receipt in greater detail than he had ever done himself.
It was an amazing discovery. Not so much for the details of the record, but rather for the fact that Julia had apparently taken over the bookkeeping from his father without much argument. For the first time that day or maybe for the first time ever, it occurred to him that there might be more to the girl than a pretty face. When later that evening he had tea with Julia, he asked her again about the farm.
“I am afraid that the farm has not been managed very well since mother died. I don't know anything about it and your father is too old to run after it,” she said rather defensively.
“But you are learning fast. I had a look at the books and I must say you did an excellent job. You quite amaze me.”
“That was not particularly difficult,” replied Julia. “When mother was ill she used to give the key to the cashbox to Miss Jennings and ask her to pay the men. She knew exactly what each of them was due. She also paid the household bills, and later the farm bills. She was worried that it was not properly written down but she did not dare to open the book and do it herself. So we decided to ask grandfather to do it, but after a while it seemed a rather roundabout way and then I started to write down what Miss Jennings paid out. From there on it was easy to make notes of the receipts and of anything else going on. Miss Jennings says the men don't work half as much as when mother was still alive. And some of them, she says, sell oats and barley and even milk for their own benefit. I don't know. I suppose it is true, but I cannot do very much about it. Last September the steam engine broke down and we could not get it repaired and we could not hire another one either. So they had to thresh by hand. Extra men were taken on but just the same, half the crop was lost. Some of the extra men are still here. It is good that you are back. You can put it all in order again.”
Henry nodded and said reassuringly, “Certainly, it will all come right again. Old Jennings knows as much about the farm as anyone. It might have been better to leave her in charge. She was very devoted to Elizabeth.”
And pretending that the thought had only occurred to him while he was talking, he added casually, “By the way, thank you for looking after the hunters and not putting them in front of the plough. I think I will ride them soon again.”
“Oh, that was really Jimmy Keefe's idea. He told us you would be very angry if we used the hunters for draught work.”
Henry smiled, gratified with old Jimmy's devotion and said again, “Thank you anyway. And don't worry. We will have the farm back in shape in no time.”
But Julia did not return the smile. She looked grave and when Henry asked her if there was something else worrying her she said, “I am not worried about the farm. I know that will come right. I am worried about what is happening in the country. This Sinn Fein carry-on frightens me a little. It is lonely here at times, and these people seem to hate the English.”
It surprised him. He had never thought about it in this way and he tried immediately to reassure her saying: “That is only politics. Ireland is always full of these things. Many people in Ireland are disappointed with the present Government and understandably so. This so-called independent Parliament is only a way to express the disappointment. They don't mean any harm to the English and certainly not to a girl like you.”
However, she did not seem convinced by his words.
2. DUMBERMERE CASTLE
A week after Henry had returned home, a letter arrived from his cousin. It said:
Dear Henry,
I understand from your father that you have at last returned from France. All here in Dumbermere Castle are eagerly awaiting your visit. Might I suggest the first week-end in June. If you take the train arriving Saturday morning 11.50 in Mallow we will send the motorcar to meet you. A similar invitation is going to your father and I hope he will come. Maybe Julia would like to join you. If so, we will of course be delighted to have her. Trust you are keeping well and looking forward to meeting you again,
Yours sincerely,
Patrick
These arrangements had obviously already been made between his father and Patrick. But it seemed as if they did not really expect or want Julia to come. Or, had it already been arranged between Julia and his father that she would not go. If so, why? During lunch he mentioned the letter to Julia.
“It is very kind of your cousin o invite me, but I don't think I ought to accept. I don't want to go away for wo days and leave little John behind. I can, obviously, not take him with me.”
“Miss Jennings will look after ittle John. I think she gets on marvellously with him. He will be alright with her,” replied Henry, but Julia shook her head.
“No, I don't want to go. Please don't push me. It is not that I would not like to see Dumbermere Castle but I don't want to leave little John.”
“Then let's take him with us. I am sure Patrick would not mind,” said Henry again, but Julia was not to be convinced.
“You know that would not do. Besides, the journey and the strange surroundings would upset the child. He would be very unhappy.”
Henry had no reason to press her. On the contrary, the idea of spending a week-end with his father attracted him. He finally said a little sharply, “Look Julia, you must do what you want to do and what you think is best. But honestly, locking yourself up in the house is not going to help little John.”
He knew immediately it was the wrong thing to have said. But having done so, he felt incapable of either withdrawing it or even apologising for his lack of kindness. They finished their dinner in silence.
His father of course was delighted with the idea of spending a weekend with his son at Dumbermere. The loneliness of old age was too seldom broken. His pride however forbade him to show his pleasure and when Henry called at his house on the Saturday morning, the old man was not quite ready to leave. Pretending that he did not care much about the plan at all he grumbled, “Why should Patrick insist on having lunch together? Arriving in time for dinner would have suited me fine. What are we going to do in the afternoon anyway? There is not much you can do at this time of the year.”
“He is probably anxious to see us,” replied Henry, “and we must not disappoint him by missing our train. So give your suitcase to Jimmy and get into the carriage.”
The old man obeyed although still protesting that they could have left at a later time as well.
Their train took them from Midleton to Cork, where they had to change for Mallow. At Cork Station they bought the morning paper. The headline in heavy black letters, over the full width of the front page drew their immediate attention.
SOLDIERS AMBUSHED AND DISARMED
Yesterday a patrol of seven soldiers was ambushed near Kilbrittain by a group of armed men, wearing masks. The soldiers were forced to surrender their arms, six rifles, a revolver and ammunition, after which they were tied up hand and foot and left in the side of the road. By the time the Corporal in charge had freed himself and raised the alarm at the barracks, the gunmen had had sufficient time to make their getaway.
There had been agrarian trouble in the locality and to protect the landlords’ interest, the police had been reinforced by Army units....
But before Henry could read any further, his father burst out, “It is a shame, surrendering arms to a bunch of criminals. They ought to be court-martialled; soldiers they call them. Cowards, that is what they are.”
“Now, now,” interrupted Henry, let's read on and find out what it was really all about. There is usually a background to these things.”
“Never mind the background,” hisbfather retorted. “The army does not surrender arms to masked bandits. Not in my time anyway.”
“There is little point in getting shot in Kilbrittain over a land quarrel after you survived four years of war. I would not blame them for not resisting,” said Henry rather icily, but it only increased his father's indignation.
“Of course they should have resisted. What else is an Army for? And I will tell you, if they had fought, as they should have done, they would have shot or captured the lot of them. Do you think that these criminals, hiding behind hedges, have any courage? At the first shot they would have run. But if the Army surrenders, these fellows willvdo it again next week, and the week thereafter, until we have all surrendered. And you condone it?!”
The old man had now become very excited. His face had reddened and he was waving with his arms. His loud voice was drawing the attention of bystanders on the station platform. Henry tried to calm him down.
“I did not mean to condone it, father. It is of course criminal and I am sure that whatever the affair was about, they won't achieve anything by these methods. All I say is that the Army patrol may have been taken by surprise and by superior numbers. Why should they throw their lives away for very little purpose? The stolen rifles won't get very far, and if these people use them, they will soon find out that nobody in the country approves of this sort of violence.”
It quietened his father down somewhat, and in a more normal tone he said, “You are too kind for this world, Henry.” It came with a little sadness. The sadness of a father who recognises that his son is not as he would like him to be.
“Come, let's go to the other platform; the train will be there and we can find a good window seat at our ease,” said Henry.
When they came out of Mallow Station, it was not difficult to find the motorcar that would bring them to Dumbermere Castle. There was in fact only one motorcar between the numerous horse-drawn vehicles waiting outside the station. They walked straight towards it. A young chauffeur, smartly dressed in cap and uniform stood nearby and when they approached he stood to attention, saluted and opened the rear door, all in a very military fashion. It obviously pleased the old man. He nodded his head slightly, in acknowledgement of the salute and said, “I don't think I have seen you before.”
“No Sir,” replied the chauffeur, “I am with the Earl only since December.”
“Have you been in the Army?”
“Yes Sir, Irish Guards.”
“Good, good. Did they teach you to drive motorcars in the Army?”
“Not altogether Sir, but I drove a lorry for some time over there.”
They got into the backseat. It was a pre-war model and although eight years old, looked well-maintained and in good condition.
“Do you want me to put the hood up, Sir?” asked the chauffeur. “Considering the fine day, I left it down,” he added by way of explanation.
“No, that will be alright,” replied the Colonel.
The chauffeur started the engine, put the crank handle away and sat down in the driver's seat.
“Are you from the area?” asked O'Neill Snr. as soon as the chauffeur was in his place again.
“Indeed Sir, I am from Mallow town, my father was a blacksmith.”
As he was talking, he put the car into gear and drove off. He continued talking, but the noise of the engine and the wind, as they gathered speed, made conversation difficult. But old O'Neill was too pleased with this smart young lad with his military manner to give up the conversation.
“Did you read in the paper about the shameful behaviour of that patrol in West Cork?” he bellowed from behind.
“What's that Sir?” The chauffeur turned his head halfway and backwards, to better understand and keep an eye on the road at the same time. The Colonel leaned forward and shouted: “The patrol that was ambushed yesterday in West Cork. What do you think about that?”
“Oh, very nice part of the country Sir. Like to go there myself.”
">“No,” O'Neill Snr. shouted back. “I mean the patrol that was ambushed; the way they surrendered. Was not that a shame?”
“Oh, yes Sir, a shame.” The chauffeur nodded his head vigorously.
O'Neill Snr. apparently found this a satisfactory reply. The car had reached the open road and was going at some twenty-five miles an hour leaving an enormous cloud of dust behind it. Henry, who had watched rather than heard the conversation, was wondering if the strong wind would not be too much for the old man's age and health. He unfolded one of the plaids that was on the backseat and tucked his father into it. There was some protest, but Henry shouted into his ear: “It is against the dust.”
It took the motorcar just under half an hour to cover the nine miles to Dumbermere Castle. It was not really a castle. In old times, a Norman stronghold of the same name stood a few hundred yards further down on the bank of the river Blackwater. The first Earl had bought the ruin and six thousand acres of land around it. After retiring from a distinguished military career, he had built the present elegant Georgian house. It was standing back from the river, on slightly higher ground, and from the windows and the terrace at the rear it enjoyed a splendid view of grasslands sloping towards the quiet river, with trees rising on the other bank. The present Earl liked to explain to his visitors that the house was not particularly large, that it was in fact small as country houses go, but that it made up for this by comfort and charm, and that he preferred it that way. If one remarked at this stage on the tasteful decoration and the beautiful view from the drawing room, the conversation would conclude to the entire satisfaction of the Earl.
Patrick O'Neill, 5th Earl of Dumbermere was almost ten years older than Henry. His short career in the Army had not been outstanding but neither had it been without merit. Like Henry he had settled down to a country life at a rather early age, hunting, shooting and fishing, and patiently waiting for the day he would succeed to the title and the estate. He had married an English girl, Jane Wainfield, whose family background was greatly superior to her dowry, to the great disappointment of his father, the 4th Earl, who had been pragmatic enough to realise that an injection of cash into the Dumbermere estates would have been very desirable. But Patrick was happy enough with his present station in life and with the respect he commanded in the country between Mallow and Fermoy. He had no ambition to live in a grander state than his means allowed.
Henry and his father were brought to the drawing room where they found the Earl and his wife. The welcome was warm. The Earl liked his cousin and there had always been a certain reciprocity. The pleasure of the reunion put Henry in good spirits and he could not help remarking once again on the beautiful view over the river. It was not flattery or politeness; he really felt that the country looked beautiful on this fine June day and that it was good to be back in Ireland among old friends and relatives.
O'Neill Snr. had let himself down in a chair. The sun shining through the large French windows had made the room quite warm, and sleep almost overpowered the old man. Henry noticed it and suggested gently that he might lie down in bed until lunch. But his father did not want to miss the eager conversation and insisted he was quite well.
“Then promise,” said Henry to his father, “that you will rest after lunch.”
And to his cousin he said, “I would like to saddle a horse after lunch if you have one Patrick, and ride across the river into Killavullen.”
Henry knew the country around Dumbermere Castle well. When his grandfather was still alive, he had spent many a holiday in the house, playing with his cousins the games of adventure that keep children spellbound in an imaginary world that does, geographically, not extend further than the few fields immediately around the house. The same fields looked so small today and the games ridiculous, but still it was a memory of enchanted times. It was here that he had learned to ride. He had been very eager, impressed as he was with the skill of his older cousins and ashamed of not being their equal in experience.
From the very stables where he was now saddling the horse, he had set out at the age of ten on his first hunt, with his uncle and two older cousins and a groom especially to look after him. He remembered the mixture of pride he had felt at riding out and of humiliation at needing a groom to mind him. And soon, thirty five years later, he would be riding out again. Searching for his lost childhood? Hardly that, but alone, yes, very much alone, without anyone to look after him, and somehow disconnected from the life he had left behind when he had gone to war four years ago.
On coming out of the drive, Henry went left down the country road leading to the river. At the end of the road was an old ford, not much used since the bridges had been built over the Blackwater. In the summer, when there was not much rain, it was not difficult for a horse to cross, the water being only some three feet deep. From the other side of the river it was about three miles of tracks and roads to Killavullen.
The village was quiet, considering it was a Saturday afternoon. It looked more dilapidated than he remembered. A few ponies and traps were tied near the drinking trough and half a dozen young men were hanging about in front of the pub. They returned his greeting without much interest. Henry had intended to stop and maybe have a drink in the pub, but he was disappointed by the lazy, careless and uninviting atmosphere. So he decided to go on. Leaving the village again he met a farmer coming from the other direction. When they had almost passed each other, the farmer stopped, turned his head and said, “God bless, if it isn’t Mr. O'Neill and how are ye keeping Sir?”
Henry was not immediately sure who he was, but the fact that somebody had recognised him after all those years cheered him up and he was happy to talk to the man about the things that farmers talk about on a Saturday afternoon in June.
He had intended to take the road back past Castletownroche Station. After crossing the bridge, he remembered how they once came home across the bridge from a hunt and had decided to leave the road and ride cross-country in a straight line to Dumbermere Castle. The day was fine, the meeting with the farmer had changed his mood and the challenge of jumping fences seemed suddenly as irresistible as it was when he had been twenty years younger. He opened a gate to a field on the right-hand side of the road. It was all grassland, with cattle and sheep here and there. The first three fields were easy, simply cantering through gaps in the fences, but the third field was bordered by an impenetrable boundary fence. To the right was a low bank with a steep drop at the other side into the long low fields alongside the river. The horse put its forelegs obediently on the bank but shied away from the big drop. Henry, now that he had gone three fields did not want to turn back and he pushed the horse up on the bank again. At the third attempt, the horse took the plunge and landed safely on the soft ground of the lower field. It gave Henry a feeling of great satisfaction and confidence; in the horse, in himself and in the world.
The next field was narrow and long. On the right-hand was the river, and on the left the higher grassland, subdivided into smaller fields. After jumping a few low fences perpendicular to the river he found on the left the steel gate that gave entry to the first field of the Dumbermere Estate. There were now only five fields to go, with timber gates or posts and rails. It was a course that he had ridden many times as a young man and he knew it well. The steel gate was open. The second was closed but had a low post and rail next to it and the horse flew it without difficulty. The third obstacle was higher. Henry rode into it without checking, but in the last stride the horse hesitated, wanting to stop, but unable to because of the speed. It made an awkward and half-hearted jump, knocking the rail with the hind legs and barely getting over.
The horse was tiring and Henry should have pulled him up, but in the excitement of the gallop, good judgement was left behind. The final fence was even higher. Henry pushed the horse on holding the reins in one hand and with the other, laying the stick behind the girth. The horse extended his stride, seemingly going for the fence, but when two strides away, suddenly swerved to the left. Henry lost balance and fell sideways out of the saddle, hitting the ground just in front of the fence. The horse trotted to the left along the fencing and stopped at the closed gate. “The gate,” Henry thought ruefully “that I should have opened instead of attempting to jump”.
His shoulder and side were hurting, but he got up, walked to the horse and opened the gate. His main concern was that someone might have seen the accident. It would make it all the more embarrassing. He led the horse to the paddock field, took saddle and headgear off, carried the tack to the saddle room and went quietly to his room, unnoticed by anyone. He lay down for half an hour, before changing into a lounge suit and returning downstairs to the drawing room, where he found Jane, the Earl’s wife reading a novel. She put her novel away and invited him to sit down.
“Did you have a nice ride?” she asked.
“Very nice. When coming back over the bridge I went cross-country along the river, you know, and came out eventually in the paddock field.”
“I certainly did. It was almost like the old days.”
“Why almost?”
“Well, I am not as young as I used to be.” he said with a grin.
“Nor am I,” said Lady Jane, “but now that we talk about old age, how is the younger generation? I mean Julia of course. Why did she not come with you? Patrick did ask her I hope. I told him to. But I would not be surprised if he forgot.”
“No, Patrick asked her, but she would not come. I mean she really would not. She said she could not let her child alone and she could not travel with the child either. It is a bit difficult, is it not.”
“Nonsense, absolute nonsense,” retorted the Countess of Dumbermere. “We all left our children at home to go out and visit friends.”
“Yes,” said Henry softly, “but you all had husbands.”
Lady Jane was a bit taken aback by the reply. She thought for a while before she spoke again, “I did not wish to overlook her grief, but what I meant to say was that you must get her to meet other people again. Get her involved in what goes on in the world outside your house. She is too young to withdraw just like that. She has her whole life still in front of her.”
“She is quite aware of what goes on in the world outside our house but I am afraid she does not particularly like it.”
“What do you mean by that?” asked Lady Jane.
“I mean the political situation; for instance what happened in Kilbrittain yesterday. I can understand that she is a little frightened by it at her age and coming from London. It is not ...”
But Lady Jane cut him short and said rather sharply, “You, Henry, should be well aware that 'political situations' as you call them are nothing unusual in this country. We have had them for centuries and no doubt we will have them for a long time to come. It has never harmed us very much. Why would it be different this time?”
“But” and she smiled apologetically, “I did not want to discuss politics with you. I am concerned about Julia. She is a strange girl.”
Then, as if she was suddenly distracted from the course of her argument she added, looking at the same time closely at Henry, “Did it ever occur to you that it is strange that she did not return to her parents after your wife had died?”
Henry shook his head in genuine surprise. “No. Donoghmore Farm belongs to her son. She has every reason to stay.”
“But I am speaking about the time that her son was not even born. I went to see her and offered help. I even offered her to come here for the delivery but she would not. Her mother eventually came over, who, I understand, hired a nurse in Cork. But after her mother had left, Julia dismissed the nurse.”
“I did not know that,” said Henry a little sheepishly. “We did not write very much to each other. But why should she wish to leave Donoghmore House? She owns it as much, or as little, I should say, as I do.”
“Dear Henry,” replied the Countess wearily, “If you own land you do not necessarily have to live on it. What I am saying to you is that it is strange, or at least remarkable, that a girl from well-to-do parents in London should, under the circumstances, choose to remain on a farm in Ireland with an old housekeeper as her only company.”
“But she seems to be very interested in the way the farm works. I think she likes living there,” said Henry defensively.
“Rubbish, absolute rubbish. Young women do not like to live in lonely country houses and if you think otherwise you have not learned very much in your life.”
Henry looked a little helpless at her, wondering whether he should contradict what she said, but before he could make up his mind she continued. “I think you must do one of two things. Let her go back to London with the child. Or if she does not wish to do that, then she must not be allowed to isolate herself. You must help her. She needs distraction and if she does not want to put on her ball-gown yet, which one can understand, then you must take her out so that she can meet other people. Or take her out riding. You love your rides, and you may as well have company. Who knows, you might get her to go out hunting next season. It is healthy and there is nothing improper about it, not even in her situation. Promise me Henry that you will try.”
“I will try,” replied Henry, “But, although she can ride a little, she has never hunted in her life. She is from London you know.”
“That is no argument. At her age she can learn. She will learn very fast if she really wants to. Your job is to make her want to. And tell her also to forget those little Irish brawls, particularly if they happen fifty miles away in West Cork. Only newspapers and strangers think they are important.”
Henry did not wish to argue with his cousin’s wife and no more was said, either about Julia or about the Kilbrittain incident, for the rest of the day until after dinner, when the ladies had retired and the port was being passed around and the Earl opined.
“I am of course a little concerned about those reports from Kilbrittain, but, all the same, one must not read too much into them. These things have happened before and it would be wrong to see it as the beginning of a revolution. It is a dispute over the tenure of land and tempers will go high.”
But old O'Neill did not agree. “You all think I am an old man living in the past and unable to understand the new times. But you are wrong. It is you Henry and you Patrick who do not understand. I am not concerned about the merits of the dispute. I don't care what it is about. The law will decide on that and once the law has decided the law must be upheld. But when a Constable reinforced with a patrol of soldiers surrenders at the sight of masked men carrying arms, the law is not being upheld. On the contrary, it is being made into a laughing stock. You, Patrick, are Chairman of the Unionist Party in Mallow; you more than anyone should understand how important it is to maintain the law. And the people will respect you for it.”
“All right,” interjected Henry. “The law must be upheld, I agree. But if next year the law says that there will be Home Rule for Ireland, or for the southern part of Ireland, that law must also be upheld by us.”
“Don't worry about that,” said O'Neill Snr. “As long as we keep a Tory Government in power in London there will be no Home Rule.”
“I am, unfortunately, no longer absolutely sure that we do not need to worry,” replied the Earl. “I am a supporter of the Union, as my father and indeed my grandfather was. I have opposed Home Rule all my life. And no doubt a Tory Government can resist it, if they want to, for a long time to come. But I am beginning to wonder, if it will be in the interest of a landowner in Ireland. Westminster has passed one Act after the other, to help the tenant farmer and in doing so they have undermined the position of the landowner. We are in fact gradually being dispossessed of our land.”
“It should never have been allowed to happen,” said old Colonel O’Neill, allowing his dormant anger about the Land Acts of the last twenty years, from which he himself had in fact never suffered, to colour his mood. Henry could not find the words to contradict either of the two older men, while the Earl continued.
“And the worst of it is that most of these laws apply to Ireland only and not to England. They have been passed merely in an effort to buy peace in Ireland and prevent Home Rule. I sometimes feel that if Home Rule had been introduced in the Seventies, when we all thought it was a preposterous idea, a Dublin Parliament could not possibly have been worse to us. In 1870, the estate was six thousand acres. Today it is two thousand. The rest was bought out under various Land Acts by the sitting tenants with money borrowed from the Government. In twenty years time I will be happy to have six hundred acres, free of tenants around the Castle. Admittedly they pay us a price. But what is that money worth today? Seriously, I am really beginning to believe that Home Rule would have been the better option at the time; and it still might offer us a more reasonable prospect.”
And lowering his voice as if he was afraid that he would be heard outside the room he said, “You see, our worst enemy is Socialism. Socialists confiscate without any compensation. A Dublin Parliament would be dominated by the thousands of new small freeholders and under the present system, there will be many more within the next ten years. They are not going to support Socialism. The Roman Catholic Church is not going to allow it either. They are even more afraid of Socialism than I am. Our interest today is the protection of private property. A Dublin Parliament and the RC church will do that. And they will maintain law and order, and far more effectively than Westminster or the Army.”
There was silence after this long and, for a Unionist landowner, somewhat remarkable statement. Most of the old landowners would probably have felt it was not quite the thing to say. Henry now engaged in the conversation, and said rather untactfully what his cousin did not want to hear.
“I am afraid, Patrick, that your political realism has come too late. Ten years ago, or even three years ago, a statement by the Unionist Party that they would support Home Rule could have saved the situation. Now the War and the reaction of the Government have destroyed the Home Rule movement. The only alternative to Unionism that the Irish people have today is Sinn Fein. There is a strong socialist influence in Sinn Fein, exactly the thing that you want to avoid. But it is there already. It is there because of your attitudes in the past.”
“Nonsense,” interrupted the old Colonel and added somewhat apologetically, “Henry sometimes has these curious political ideas. He is too good for this world really. Shall we stop talking politics and play a game of cards.”
3. MOTORING HOME
It had been their intention to return home on the train leaving Mallow Station at 2.40 p.m. but lunch was late and elaborate, and the next train giving a reasonable connection to Midleton was not until very much later. To solve the problem, Patrick offered his guests the motorcar and the services of the chauffeur, an offer, which, after some polite hesitation was gladly accepted.
Saturday’s bright summer weather had changed into a dull and overcast Sunday. As the day wore on, the wind increased and when they finally left, late in the afternoon, scattered raindrops had begun to fall. The hood of the car was up as well as the glass screen between the driver's seat and the passenger compartment. It made Henry and his father reasonably comfortable, in contrast to the chauffeur, who only had the protection of the windscreen and the extended roof of the car, leaving him exposed to wind and rain on either side.
After having crossed the bridge in Ballyhooly, the scattered drops changed into a steady rain. It was not heavy but it persisted all the way to Rathcormac and down the winding road to Midleton. The weather grew colder. Even in the passenger compartment it became chilly. Small leaks through the hood gradually began to create wet patches on the floor, the seats and even on the passenger’s clothing. The chauffeur however was in a worse condition. The rain on the windscreen obliged him from time to time to lean out so as to get a proper view of the road and on such occasions he received the full force of the elements.
Henry suggested that they stop in Rathcormac to warm themselves in the roadside inn. He was concerned about his father's health and also he wanted to give the chauffeur a chance to dry himself a little. But the latter resolutely declined saying that he would stop if that was the Colonel's wish, but he himself would drive on until he had carried out his orders. Old O'Neill, once again delighted with the attitude of the dapper ex-Guardsman, did not wish to hold him back, nor for that matter did he want to admit that he was cold and tired.
So they drove on, with the rain coming down, the water splashing up from the puddles on the road, and the car leaving a cloud of spray and mud behind, until, approaching the village of Ballincurrig, the vicissitudes of motor transport caught up with them. At first the engine only missed an occasional beat, then it began to splutter and finally it stopped altogether. The car came slowly to a halt, and Henry and the chauffeur got out. Together they lifted the bonnet over the engine. Everything underneath, with the exception of the hot engine block itself and the steaming exhaust, was dripping wet.
“The ignition probably got wet. There is no point in trying to dry it out in this weather,” said Henry, remembering similar occurrences from his days in France, without unfortunately being able to recall where exactly the ignition was to be found or what it was supposed not to do when wet.
The chauffeur, whose training as a soldier had not included such trivial and unnecessary things as the internal combustion engine, readily agreed.
“That is right Sir. No point in trying to fix it now.”
They closed the bonnet with the solemnity of experts discharging themselves of a grave responsibility after which Henry cheerfully said, “I will walk up to the next village and see if I can find some other transport. My father must remain in the car. It would be too much for him to walk the distance. You stay here and look after him,” and then went back to his father to explain his plan.
It was less than a mile to the village and fifteen minutes later he entered Cronin's pub, soaked but hopeful of finding a solution. On the outside the place looked deserted except for a lone bicycle placed against the wall. Inside he found, apart from the publican, two men looking very much like locals and a young man wearing breeches obviously the owner of the bicycle. Henry addressed them in a general sort of way.
“Our motorcar has broken down just outside the village. Do you know where I could borrow a pony and trap or something of that sort?”
“Tis a bad day for it,” said one of the locals helpfully. There was no other comment and it was clear that much greater detail of the problem would be required before the proposition could be further discussed.
Henry therefore continued, “I live only a few miles away from here. If you know somebody who could collect the other passengers and bring them to my house, I would pay of course.”
“Are you not Mr. O'Neill from Donoghmore House?” asked the publican cautiously.
“Yes, that is right,” replied Henry, glad to have some response at last. “And many a time I have been here before. But I need some help now.”
“Tis a pity the pony lost a shoe yesterday. But maybe you could get Paddy Leahy's cob next door.”
“Paddy is milking the cows,” said the man who had talked earlier.
There was a gloomy finality in his words which seemed to indicate an opinion that the milking of cows would preclude any man from rendering assistance to a stranded motorcar. Henry began to realise that if there was any means of transport in the village it would take some time to get hold of it.
Then an idea struck him, and addressing the young man in the breeches he said, “The bicycle outside, is that yours?”
The young man nodded.
“Could I borrow it from you? I would be back in half an hour.”
The young man's attitude stiffened visibly. Without looking at Henry he replied, “I am sorry, I am on my way to Midleton and am just sheltering from the rain here. I am very delayed already and must be on my way now.”
“Look,” insisted Henry, “my house is in the direction of Midleton. Can't we get on the bicycle together?”
At the same time he produced a half crown out of his waistcoat pocket. The attitude of the young man now became definitely hostile. He turned around and without saying a word started walking towards the door. Henry put the half crown away and went after him.
“Listen, my father is out there in that motorcar. He is seventy-eight, he is cold and miserable from the journey; his legs are bad; he could not even walk the half mile to this village. I must get him home before he gets pneumonia.”
The urgency that was conveyed by the words and the barely disguised anger in Henry's voice, made the young man hesitate. He looked all of a sudden more shy than hostile. Then, shrugging his shoulders he said, “All right. You can stand on the step.”
Outside the rain was still falling steadily. Leaving the village and going down towards the old stone bridge over the stream was easy enough, but after that it became hard work for Henry's companion. The wind blew the rain into their faces and even on the relatively level stretches of the road it took much effort to peddle the bicycle with the extra weight of a passenger.
When they arrived in Lisgoold, the young man was visibly tired and suggested a rest in the local pub. But Henry, wet and cold though he was, urged him to continue. Seeing his companion reluctant, he offered to change places, and so found himself cycling out of Lisgoold with the unknown young man on the step behind him. After turning left off the main road, the road ascended a fairly steep hill. It was very hard work and soon Henry was exhausted. His companion noticed his difficulty and jumped off.
“We better walk uphill,” he said curtly.
Henry was only too pleased to oblige. After recovering his breath he explained, “It is only a few hundred yards more to the top, then we turn right and after that it is a mile on a level road to my house. If you continue along that road, you eventually go downhill again and pick up the main road just a mile and a half outside Midleton. It is not really longer to get to Midleton except you have to get up this dreadful slope.”
When they got to the top and had mounted the bicycle again, the rain suddenly changed into a heavy downpour. Before they could find any shelter they were both soaked to the skin.
“Well,” said Henry, “we can't get any wetter now. We better push on and dry ourselves at home.”
A little later when they approached the gate to Donoghmore House he added, “I don't know how far you have to go from here, but you are wet and tired. Come in for a cup of tea and dry yourself a little. You have been very kind and I would appreciate it if you would come in.”
The pressing reasons Henry's new friend had to get to Midleton had clearly been washed away in the lashing rain, and although the downpour was coming to an end as they entered the front door, the young man was happy to accept the invitation.
“What is your name?” asked Henry when they went in.
“Michael Leahy. I am living in Midleton.”
“Well, my name is Henry O'Neill and this is my land and my house. Come on into the kitchen, it is always warm there. Oh, there is my housekeeper Miss Jennings. This is Michael Leahy. He gave me a lift on his bicycle and now we are both very wet. Could we have a cup of tea and maybe a drop of whiskey? Sit down Michael, in front of the cooker there. Look after him Miss Jennings I must go and find Jimmy. Any idea where he is?”
“Jimmy went to the station to collect you and came back half an hour ago alone. How did he miss you at the station then?”
“We did not come on the train but in a motorcar. It got stuck the other side of Ballincurrig.”
Then Jimmy entered the kitchen.
“I saw you coming through the gate on the bicycle Major, and I was wondering why yourself and the Colonel were not on the train.”
“Never mind that now Jimmy, get the carriage ready. My father is waiting alongside the road in a broken down motorcar. Hurry now, I will join you in a minute.”
Julia had been sitting in the drawing room. She had heard her father-in-law entering the front door and the voices in the kitchen. She came into the kitchen just as Jimmy was told to get the carriage ready. The story of the mishap was quickly explained to her. She looked at Henry as he stood there, dripping little pools of water on the tiled kitchen floor, and shook her head.
“You can't go out again as wet as you are. You must at least put on dry clothes. But why go at all? You stay here and I will go with Jimmy to help grandfather.”
She had spoken in an almost commanding voice. But noticing that Henry was not inclined to listen to her, she changed her tune and began pleading.
“Please do. I would like to go out. I have not been out at all today. The rain has stopped and there is nothing to it. I can manage. Shall I bring him straight home? That would be the best, would it not?”
The idea obviously seemed to excite and please her, and Henry, beginning to understand how dearly she wanted to go, felt there was no point in refusing. When Julia had left, Miss Jennings poured tea, brought a bottle of whiskey and glasses, and then left the two men alone in the kitchen.
“So there we are,” said Henry, pouring whiskey and trying to be cheerful about it. “There, drink this; it will warm you up, even more than the tea. What a miserable afternoon. I am really very grateful to you for your help. It is my fault you got so wet. You are from Midleton you said?”
“No, not really. I am from Queenstown, but I work in Midleton as an electrician.”
“That is a very nice job. Where did you learn your trade?”
“I was an apprentice in the Naval Dockyard on Haulbowline. I only finished a year ago.”
“Ah, you were in the Navy?”
“No, I was not. I was a civilian apprentice in the Dockyard.”
“You were on the Naval Base during the War then? You never got away from it?”
“Oh, I got away once; to England.”
“On a ship? Or did you work in a Naval yard in England?”
“No, I was in prison there in 1916.”
The young man said it quietly, and with a certain amount of pride. It took a few moments before the significance of the statement was clear to Henry. 1916 had been the year of the Rebellion in Dublin and the way in which the young man had mentioned his term in prison in England could only mean that he had been involved in it.
Henry's first reaction was one of disbelief rather than anger. He gazed at this simple, inoffensive young man who resembled anything but a rebel. Michael Leahy remained silent, looking down at where his hands rested on the kitchen table and apparently more concerned about the embarrassment he was causing his host than about a rebellion. Finally Henry said, with the disbelief coming through in his voice, “You mean to say that you were involved in the Easter Rebellion in 1916?”
“Yes indeed,” said the young man. “Although I am sorry to say that I did not fire a single shot. Our arms never arrived and the plans for Cork were unfortunately abandoned.”
There was a long silence again. Henry was still more dumbfounded than upset, but began to appreciate the conflict between hospitality and honesty in which he so unexpectedly found himself. It is difficult to be hostile to someone who has just helped you out and with whom you are having tea around the kitchen table, thus what he eventually said was much milder than what he might have said under other circumstances. But it was honest.
“Look Michael. I am grateful to you for helping me. I begin to understand why you were reluctant to do so at first, so all the more credit to you. You have been frank about your part in 1916 so I should be frank as well. When you were having your rebellion in Dublin, I was in the Army in France. There were more than a hundred thousand Irishmen with me; all volunteers. In 1916, we, the Irish who were fighting in France, felt that the rebels in Dublin had betrayed us. That is still what I think. But drink your tea and get dry before you leave.”
Michael Leahy had grown red in the face, but he was still looking down into the teacup between his hands on the table. He had clearly difficulty in finding the right thing to say, but it was equally obvious that he was not going to be silent.
“It is not like that. You don't understand. You are not Irish.”
Incoherent though the reply was, it nevertheless signalled to Henry that he had gone a little too far in his honesty. Not only had hospitality suffered in the process but perhaps also simple prudence. Why antagonise someone who was probably still deeply involved in this rebel movement? He had no desire to get mixed up in politics and most certainly not with or rather against the sort of politics propagated by Michael Leahy, and, much more cautiously now, interrupted him before he could say more.
“Sorry, indeed perhaps I do not understand. I certainly do not wish to reflect on your motives. I have been away for a long time and came back only last month. I don't know much about what has happened in Ireland during the last few years. I am grateful for your help, not for myself but for my father who really needed it. So let's not talk about politics anymore. Tell me rather about your work as an electrician. I wish we had electricity here. Would it be a big job to install it?”<
Michael Leahy was one of those people who suffer from delayed reactions. They know exactly how to deal with an unexpected event after it has all happened and it is too late to do whatever should have been done about it. The result is usually anger and this is what Michael Leahy had in abundance as he cycled home to his lodgings after his encounter with Major O'Neill. He had been told off like a schoolboy for his political beliefs, after which the whole thing had been dismissed as of too little importance to merit further discussion.
But for all his revolutionary zeal and the indignity of having his ideals brushed off the table, he was not a vindictive man. His nature was inclined to see the noble side of humanity and to credit other people with the good intentions that he himself had. Thus, as he cycled on, his anger subsided and he began to see in Major O'Neill's words certain signs that the man did not perhaps altogether disagree with the republican ideals of a free and independent Ireland. Had he not said “perhaps I do not understand” and “I respect your motives”?
These thoughts cheered him up considerably and as he cycled on he almost wished that there would be another opportunity of talking to the Major. Pondering on what he would say, the meeting was, in his imagination already taking place. He would begin by talking about Wolfe Tone. How could anyone disagree with what Wolfe Tone had written? It should be possible to persuade O'Neill that they were fighting for an honourable cause and that there would be a place for everyone and certainly for an Anglo-Irishman of the Major's disposition in the new Ireland.
Or perhaps it would be better to write a letter first? This thought now overtook, in his imagination, the one of a meeting and he began, in his mind, to compose, “My dear Major O'Neill”
No, that would be too intimate, just, “Dear Sir” would be better. “After our chance meeting on Sunday last, it occurred to me that we missed an opportunity ...”
Contemplating this letter as he rode, Michael Leahy’s anger ebbed away to be replaced by a self-confident optimism that their meeting had perhaps been a blessing in disguise.
“But why not carry the idea a little further and make it an open letter,” he said to himself. The Cork Examiner might print it and if not it could be printed as a pamphlet: “Open letter to an Anglo-Irishman”. It would make headlines and impress a great number of people who were, at the moment, still doubtful about the Republican ideals.
With these reassuring thoughts, he finally reached home. It was much later than he had planned. He had to report to his Company Commander at 08:00 p.m. and that was in half an hour; just about enough time to get out of his wet clothes, put on dry underwear and his other suit. But he also wanted to write down a first draft of the open letter, now that everything was still fresh in his mind. So, instead of leaving his room immediately, he sat down at the table. The first sentences flowed easily from his pen, but halfway the sheet of paper, he got stuck, unable to find the words for a strong and logical conclusion. As it was now past eight o’clock, he folded the half-finished paper over and put it in his pocket.
It was five minutes walk to Murphy's pub in the Main Street. Before entering he looked casually up and down the wide street and when he was satisfied that there was nothing suspicious, he went in. It was fairly crowded inside and there were several people he knew. Although he greeted his acquaintances, he made sure not to get engaged in conversation and went to the counter where there were strangers. He ordered a glass of lemonade and exchanged a few words about the weather with the publican. When he had his glass half-finished, he said to the publican, “Excuse me, I will be back in a minute,” and walked slowly and deliberately to the back door. After a few minutes, the publican, unobtrusively, took his glass away.
Having passed through the door he did not go on down the passage to the backyard and the sanitary facilities such as they were, as might have been normal, but opened a door immediately to the right leading into the kitchen. He left the kitchen on the other side, walked about five yards through a narrow passage, between outhouses, climbed a gate and entered the house next door through the back. Inside the house he found the Company Commander Pat Duggan, his Lieutenant John Fitzpatrick, and a third man, Mick Ahern, who like Michael himself, was a junior officer of the Company.
Pat Duggan, although also a young man, was perhaps ten years older than the other three. He was a man of limited education, few illusions, more than average intelligence and with an intense dislike of the British Army in which he had served for fifteen years. All this was very apparent in the way he spoke to his friends. When Michael entered the room, Pat Duggan said curtly, “You are late.”
“I am sorry,” replied Michael. “But I was delayed by the rain on my way back from Fermoy.”
“That is no excuse; we all got rain this afternoon. Mick was in Queenstown and John and myself were in Cork.”
Michael was somewhat taken aback by the sharp reply, but he had firmly made up his mind to speak immediately about his idea of an open letter to Major O'Neill and he continued unperturbed.
“But I also helped some people whose motorcar had broken down. They were in fact Major O'Neill from Donoghmore House and his father. I had quite an interesting conversation with the Major and I intend to write to him to explain our policies. I was wondering whether I should not do so in the form of an open letter and send a copy to the Editor of the Cork Examiner. I have most of it drafted already. It would be very good publicity for our cause if the letter had a wide distribution. I can have it ready tomorrow for you to read.”
Pat Duggan looked at the young man. There was a mixture of annoyance and ridicule on his face. But in his reply he tried hard to be friendly and understanding.
“Publicity you would get, certainly, but it might be the sort of publicity that will get you arrested next time there is some trouble in the town. And we would not like that, would we. I know the O'Neill's. The Major came back from France quite recently. He lost his son during the war and then his wife died. He is, I suppose, in his own way, a decent fellow. But his father is as bad as they come: a pompous old ass. But whatever they are like, they both remain British Army Officers, and believe me Michael, the likes of you and me do not engage British Army Officers in polite conversation or in polemics in the newspapers. We are not allowed to. You see, we are the lower classes. I know; I served under them for almost half my life.”
“Do I take it then that you don't approve of the idea of an open letter,” said a very despondent Michael Leahy.
“Right, I don't approve of letters, either open or closed. I don't approve of the O'Neill's and we did not meet here to discuss their life history. You were supposed to be here at eight o'clock to report on your mission to Fermoy. It is a quarter to nine now. So you better get on with it.”
Michael Leahy had great respect for his Company Commander, and although he was very disappointed that his plan had been rejected out of hand, he accepted that the older man had the authority to refuse. Therefore he began to report, as accurately as possible, on his meeting near Fermoy.
“I found my contact man just outside the town. We exchanged the passwords and I was satisfied that he was the man I was looking for. We left my bicycle in a shed, out of sight, and walked cross country climbing fences and gates, until we came to what looked like an abandoned farm house. My companion went in through the kitchen door and I followed. Inside I found the CO of the Fermoy Company with a stranger. I reported to the CO on the strength of our Company exactly as you had instructed and explained that we could supply him with ten men but they would not be armed or trained.”
“Who was the stranger?” asked Pat Duggan.
“I don't know. He did not give his name. But he was treated with much respect by the others.”
“He was probably the man who is trying to raise the armed Column. I discussed it again at Headquarters in Cork this afternoon. They are all in favour of having a strong armed force based in the mountains North of Fermoy; and if we can help we should. But they don't seem to be capable of giving any help themselves. What did your man reply? Did he say anything at all?”
“Yes,” resumed Michael, “he said he had himself many more volunteers than arms and there was no sense in bringing in more men from other areas unless they were properly armed. He asked again what is the maximum number of armed volunteers that we could have available in two weeks time? He told me to stress to you the importance of early action and to say that a limited action carried out soon is worth more than a larger one in three months time.”
“Did he tell you anything about his plan for a raid?” asked Pat Duggan.
“No,” said Michael simply.
Duggan now turned to the other young man in the room. He was a tall, heavily built lad with a reddish complexion, the son of a small farmer in Ballinacurra. His hands betrayed that he was used to handling a pick and shovel and the expression on his face did not suggest that he would ever handle much more in his life. This was Mick Ahern.
“Tis the same in Queenstown,” he said. “Plenty of men but no arms. They have a few rifles they say, but they won't give them to anyone else.”
“Do you mean to say that they won't be able to help either?” asked Pat Duggan kindly.
“That’s it. They have been asked alright, but they won't.”
John Fitzpatrick, the lieutenant now spoke.
“It is the same everywhere. Plenty of volunteers, all full of good intentions but no arms. The big boys in Dublin tell us to take offensive action, whatever that means. How do you do that without guns? That’s what I would like to know. Do they expect us to forge pikes and storm the barracks as if it was 1798 all over again?”
“Exactly,” said Pat Duggan with enthusiasm. It was precisely the way he wanted the conversation to go. “We can't fight with pikes. Nobody is going to make us a present of twenty-four rifles, so we must find them ourselves.”
Everyone round the table nodded in agreement.
“Where are rifles to be found?” Without waiting for the answer Duggan continued. “In the barracks of the Constabulary and the Army. But because we can't just walk in and take them, we must wait until the rifles come out. The problem is that when they come out, they are carried by soldiers. I have been thinking about that. And now the lads in West Cork have done what I had in mind; lure the soldiers into a trap.”
He looked round triumphantly, but to his regret he did not see much appreciation of his words on the faces of his friends, and John Fitzpatrick sceptically remarked, “If we raided some big houses in the country, would that not be much easier? We could do it using the three revolvers that we have between us. It is all we have got. There are always firearms in those places. If we could find out from the servants where and how many...”
But Pat Duggan shook his head. “You will upset the entire countryside. And for what? You would only find a few shotguns. Useless. No, we want rifles, good modern Lee Enfields. We will think of something.”
Apparently he already had a plan in his head and he continued as if he had convinced them all of the great merits of it.
“To begin with, we are going to observe the patrols of the Constabulary and the Army. We want to find out if there is any regularity in them. If so, how many are on the patrol, what route do they normally take, and how are they armed? We divide the roads into Midleton into four groups. Each of us will work with the help of two other Volunteers. You may choose your helpers yourself, but check out with me first. And don't write anything down on paper ...”
4. RIDING LESSONS
Henry O'Neill remembered his cousin's wife’s advice about desirable social activities for his daughter-in-law. Since he found Sunday lunches bothersome to arrange and uninteresting to attend, he decided in favour of riding. On the Monday after his return from Dumbermere Castle, two things however interfered. Firstly, he received a message from his father that he was confined to bed with heavy flu; the result of the interrupted journey in the motorcar. It was distressing news, bringing, as it did, fear of the much more serious illness which had taken away Henry’s wife a year earlier, and so, Julia and he postponed all other plans, in order to visit the old man immediately.
The other problem was, in an inverse way, the weather. After the rain on the day of their ill-fated return from Dumbermere Castle, the clouds had lifted and the sun had come out again, warm, dry and strong. The grass stood high in the fields and if the weather held it was obvious that hay should be made.
The farm had not done well in recent years. High costs and lack of supervision had wiped out all the advantages of good prices during the war years. Now prices were falling and a considerable reduction in cost would have to be obtained to avoid financial disaster.
Since Henry's return much had changed already. Extra labour taken on the previous Summer had been paid off and the strength was down to the old regulars less one who had died the previous winter. Henry supervised the work again, as he used to do, lending a hand here and there, talking to the men and explaining the difficult times ahead. It was easier than expected. Most of the men who had been on the farm for years, had themselves recognised that things had to change.
Given these circumstances, Henry decided against taking on casual labour for the haymaking and the result was that they were shorthanded. Thus the days were busy on the farm and indeed in the days that followed it proved difficult for Henry to visit his father, who was only recovering slowly. Rather, Julia went alone, leaving early in the morning and not returning until after lunch. It was very necessary; the old man ran a temperature for more than a week. But Julia was a marvellous nurse, spending hours with her patient, talking to him, reading to him from the newspaper, helping him to eat his lunch, and bringing all the love and compassion of which she was capable into caring for the old sick man.
The weather continued dry and for the rest of that week and all of the next, work in the fields continued, so that by Saturday week, the hay was cocked and relatively safe against a change in the weather. At the same time the old Colonel began to recover.
Henry visited his father on the Sunday after Church and they talked about the hard work that he and the men had managed to complete in time, of how fortunate they had been with the weather and how well their labour had been rewarded with a good, well-saved crop. And all the time they were talking, Henry watched Julia nursing his father, instructing the two servants and going about in the house as if it was her own. Happily and impressed, he said to his father, “Without Julia you would not have recovered so quickly,” and was content to see his father nod in acknowledgement. Her work of love had touched him in his numbed cold heart. She had, to him, become different; a realisation that would only dawn on him later.
As the old man's health improved and the work on the farm became less pressing, the time arrived that Julia should start with her riding lessons. It was at first not easy to convince her. She pretended fear, but Henry, with the greater sympathy that he now had for his daughter-in-law, perceived correctly, that it was fear of ridicule rather than physical fear that made her reluctant. He had explained patiently that the animals would be kept on grass for the duration of the Summer and that this was a guarantee of their docility, but it was only after he suggested they should begin in a remote and sheltered field where no one could observe them, that she agreed.
That first morning she came down in full dress: riding skirt, jacket, top hat, veil, all in proper black. It was the outfit she had brought from London on the insistence of her mother, but it had never been worn. He himself wore only old military breeches, boots and shirt. He at once saw that he had been at fault not telling her how best to dress, exposing her to the very risk of ridicule she was afraid of, but it had not been thoughtlessness, but rather diffidence to talk to her about things feminine.
It was a warm, close day and they walked the horses slowly round the field at first, Henry holding her mare on a leading rein. Then he encouraged her to trot the horse. She worked hard at it, but found it difficult. The efforts she made together with her heavy clothes soon brought perspiration running from her temples down her cheeks. Henry noticed it and pulled the horses up and suggested they walked slowly back to the yard. As they walked, he at last overcame his coyness.
“It is a pity to wear your good riding habit for exercising and it is not very practical either, especially in this warm weather. It would be better if you were lightly dressed. I am sure you would fit into a pair of my breeches. With a blouse and a shawl round your hair, you would be better off. You could sit astride then as well. It makes it easier.”
He looked away, avoiding to meet her eyes, and tried to be casual about it. She did not notice his hesitation, and she was sensible enough to accept his advice. Next morning Miss Jennings frowned, but to Henry her slender, lithe figure looked less feminine in more practical attire, which somehow reassured him.
As the Summer weeks passed, what had started as a social obligation to his daughter-in-law gradually became a time of day to which he looked forward. Henry was an excellent horseman and gave all his natural kindness and understanding to the work of teaching his pupil to ride. Making progress each day, they also progressed towards each other. He was no longer conscious of her as a strange young woman and she began to admire his skill and to appreciate his kindness.
Word got round the farm quickly that the “young Missus” was riding in a man's breeches. But they stayed away discreetly and when, by chance, Julia met a farmhand it proved to be more of an embarrassment to the man than to her.
When the wynds of hay had to be drawn in, the riding had to stop for a few days. When it was resumed, Henry suggested she had now sufficiently advanced to ride out on the roads. Julia agreed but the question of dress came up again. She could not ride out on the public road in breeches.
This time Julia solved the problem herself. She made a wide skirt-like pair of trousers of light material to put on over the breeches. She was very pleased with her idea and with the result of her own sewing. In her enthusiasm, she went into Henry's room one evening and held up the skirt saying, “Look father what I have made. I can wear this over the breeches; it will allow me to sit astride but I will be decent enough. What do you think?”
Henry was surprised at Julia's inventiveness but even more about the fact that she came, unannounced, into his study. It also flattered him, that Julia should ask his advice on a matter of dress.
“That is a very clever idea, Julia. I am sure it will be very proper but you would have to put it on before I can judge really.”
He meant that he would have to see it: while she was on the horse but she misunderstood him and replied, “Alright, I will be back in a second.”
Five minutes later she returned wearing the breeches with the new garment over them. Her feet were still in slippers. She planted herself in front of Henry, feet apart, slightly bending her knees and saying with obvious satisfaction, “See, it is very wide. It won't hinder me at all.”
Now that she was back he did not want to disappoint her. He got out of his armchair and looking approvingly, said, “It is a very good idea and it looks nice. Sit down now and I will pour you a glass of port to celebrate the occasion.”
They both laughed. Julia sat down on the settee curling her legs underneath. She accepted the glass from Henry with both hands, sipped from it and asked, “Where do we go tomorrow, when we ride out?”
“Well, we follow the road to Midleton. At the fork we turn left, and keeping left all the time will bring us back home again. It is only three miles. After you get used to it we might go a little further. We could perhaps visit my father. I am sure he would love to see you on horseback. We can visit friends in the neighbourhood. Or just ride a round and enjoy ourselves.”
“Oh, it would be fun to ride up grandfather's front drive. I can already see the surprise on his face. But do you think he would approve of a lady riding astride?” Henry smiled at her. “I am sure my father will approve.”
“You see,” said Julia thoughtfully, “I would not like to do anything that would upset him.” It took another week before Julia had the confidence and Henry the opportunity to ride up to the red brick house outside Midleton. Of course, grandfather did approve. There was, in fact, little about Julia of which he did not approve. Julia had told him that she had taken up riding and it had pleased him. In his younger days he had not approved of ladies riding horses, particularly when it concerned his own wife. But since Julia had appeared in the family, he had, with grandiose inconsistency, changed his mind. Now he was not only pleased, but even proud of the sporting spirit demonstrated by his granddaughter-in-law.
The Colonel’s health had much improved. He was up and about the house in the daytime and sometimes if the weather was nice, he sat out in the garden. Henry and Julia's arrival on this particular morning was unannounced and he was still inside. It took him a while to come out of the house, but when he saw them standing there in the drive, he was quite moved to tears. It brought back memories of pre-war days when the Hunt, having met at Midleton Station, on the move to the first covert, would stop at his front gate for a stirrup cup.
The old man immediately complimented Julia on her smart appearance and then insisted that they dismount and come in for a drink. When they pointed out that they could not leave the horses unattended, he called his gardener and instructed the man to clean out the stables at once. But they knew it would take too long so they declined gently, saying that they did not have the time whilst promising to stay on the next occasion.
“Then at least have a glass of sherry while you give the horses a rest. Wait and I will get it in half a minute.”
It could not be refused nor did they want to. They felt happy, having ridden through the fine Summer morning to call on the old man, and to find him happy and well. It took a little more than half a minute before the Colonel re-emerged from the house, followed by his housekeeper, who carried a tray with a bottle and glasses. They took a glass each and the Colonel proposed a toast.
“To both of you, and that I may see Julia hunting this season.”
Julia graciously accepted the toast. But after a few moments her honesty regained the upper hand and she said, “I don't really intend to go hunting, grandfather. I shall be satisfied to hack around and come and see you from time to time.”
“You must certainly do that also,” replied O'Neill Snr. “I will tell my man immediately the stables need to be prepared, so that you can put the horse away and come in. You must come for lunch.”
“Yes, that would be nice, if I dare to ride out alone. The horse still frightens me a little. He is so big, and if he really makes up his mind to go, there is not much I can do.”
“Nonsense,” protested O'Neill Snr. “You are riding now, and each day you will get better. When the season begins, you will be as good as any man in the Hunt.”
After these reassuring words, Henry and Julia took leave, and trotted the horses towards home. It was just past noon and Henry felt there was enough time to call on a neighbour with whom he wanted to discuss the use of the threshing machine. He had bought it in 1912, to do his own crops, but also to hire it out to neighbouring farmers. John Carey of Barryedmond House was one of them. Henry had known him for years, and although Carey was almost twenty years older than Henry and of the other religion, they had been good friends and neighbours.
John Carey had died in 1918 when Henry was away, leaving behind a widow, a daughter in a convent, another daughter married in Limerick and an only son, James. James Carey was an adventurous spirit, and having struggled through the Christian Brothers School in Cork, had run away to England and joined the Army. His natural intelligence, his dash and his knowledge of horses had attracted attention, and eventually, with the help of some of his father's friends, he had secured a place in the Officer's Training School. At the age of twenty four he had finally been commissioned into an Irish Infantry Regiment, thus redeeming his earlier aberrations to the satisfaction of his parents and sisters. That was now twelve years ago.
When the War broke out, Carey had been with his Regiment in India, but was almost immediately transferred to the Middle East, where he had seen action in Persia and in Allenby's campaign in Palestine. The war had been one big adventure for him and when it was over, and his father dead, his mother had had considerable difficulty in persuading him to resign his commission and return home to manage the farm.
Henry had, of course, known James Carey before the War. Their difference in age had however been considerable and the acquaintanceship had been shallow enough. Now that they both had come home and they were older, the age difference seemed less and a certain affinity had developed between them.
Nevertheless, James Carey was somewhat surprised to see Henry and Julia. He had heard, from the small talk of friends, neighbours and servants, that Julia was learning to ride, but he had not been expecting her to trot up the drive riding in a man's saddle.
“Well, well,” he exclaimed. “What a pleasant surprise. Glad to see you Henry, and with such a pretty young lady. A very good morning to you Madam. Your horse looks well and if you allow me, so do you. What have I done to deserve this unexpected visit? Will you dismount? It will be a pleasure to look after your horses and offer you a drink.”
Although he was speaking in general, he was looking all the time at Julia, slightly spellbound by the sight of this tall beautiful girl astride a good looking bay.
Henry replied, “Thank you very much James, but we are only passing by and just came up the drive to say good morning. I also thought I might ask you about my steam thresher. You know that your father used to hire it do his barley. It broke down last year and I believe it was then not available. But I am getting it repaired and if it is working properly again, would you be interested in hiring it again?”
“Yes Henry, of course, that would be a great convenience.”
From the way James Carey replied it was obvious that he was, for the moment, more interested in Julia than in harvesting. Still looking at her he said:
“You will certainly have your horses fit for the season. I do trust we will have the pleasure of seeing you out with the Hunt, Madam. It is at times boring enough with all the elderly gentlemen and their solemn conversations. Your charming presence would make a difference.”
Julia blushed. She was not used to this sort of flattery and felt embarrassed. But she was conscious that she should give a proper answer. She managed a smile and said, “I am not at all sure Mr. Carey, that I will do that. I shall be perfectly content to make my morning rides and leave the excitement and danger of the hunt to the gentlemen.”
“But it is not dangerous at all and at times not even exciting. This is why you should come.”
Henry had been a little surprised at first about the gallant remarks of James Carey, but now he became annoyed. He liked the young man, but felt that the tone of his remarks were out of place. It was almost flirting. Therefore he cut the conversation short.
“I take it then that you are interested in using the thresher. As soon as I have it fixed I will give you a shout and we can talk about the date the machine will be available to you.”
And turning his horse round he said to Julia, “Come on, we will be late for lunch.”
They rode off quickly. But Henry did not speak a word until they were home, just in time for lunch. Sitting down at the table, Julia suddenly said, “Do you think I would manage?”
“Manage what?” Henry asked.
“Hunting of course. I mean, do you think I could learn to jump and go fast and do all the things that people do out hunting. I am scared, really, but it would be nice if I could manage.”
Henry had some difficulty in hiding his surprise about this rather unexpected change of mind, but he replied truthfully and at length, “Of course, you can learn. Everyone can. Come to think of it, I cannot remember anyone who wanted to hunt but could not learn how to manage a horse. A lot depends on the horse. A well-schooled and experienced hunter will bring even an inexperienced rider to the end of the day. Not the other way around, mind you. A green horse will bring even the most accomplished rider down. If you want to go hunting, you must in the first place learn to jump. That means you must learn to keep your balance while you leave the horse to do the jumping. Anyone at your age can learn that.”
“Alright,” said Julia, “when do we start?”
“Tomorrow if you want to.”
Instead of being pleased about Julia's decision to practice jumping, Henry brooded about her sudden change of mind for the rest of the day. He had, for weeks, encouraged Julia to ride, hoping all the time that she would become interested in hunting. This very morning his own father had tried to persuade her. Why should he now have the feeling that it was the conversation with James Carey that had changed her mind? There was as much ground to believe that the obvious pleasure shown by his father about her new activities was the reason, or indeed the encouragement that he himself had given her during the last week.
He tried to dismiss the thoughts from his mind. It was ridiculous to suppose that the flattery of James Carey could have had any influence on Julia. Her own reaction and her reply had been perfectly proper. Even if it were true, which it was not, as he kept telling himself, why should it annoy him? The whole object, ever since his conversation with Lady Jane at Dumbermere Castle, had been to involve Julia in some of the normal social activities of country life. What did it matter how this was achieved?
But later in the afternoon, he was again intensively annoyed by the thought that a crude fellow like Carey could have any influence on such a delicate matter as bringing his daughter-in-law back into society. He just kept fretting about it and when they took out the horses the next morning, it was still on his mind. She noticed it, but did not dare ask for the reason for his moodiness. After having cantered round the field together, he told her to go round again on her own. She had never done this before and was unprepared for what followed.
Her horse was naturally reluctant to leave its stablemate and she had a desperate struggle even to get her into a trot. When she finally managed to reach the other side of the field and turn the horse round, the animal ran out on her and raced back to where Henry stood.
He told her to try again. This time she did not even reach the other side of the field. The horse took advantage of her exhaustion and her despondency and, when she dropped her hands for a moment to recover her breath, turned round and galloped back to his stable companion again. She was red in the face and panting from the effort to control the animal.
Julia’s confidence was naturally shaken by her failure to do so simple an exercise, and she was very much in need of reassurance and encouragement, but Henry ignored her problems. Or perhaps he did not notice them.
“That was more difficult than you thought. But never mind, we will try a jump,” he said flatly and as if it was of no great importance.
“Follow me. We will walk into the jump. Leave your reins loose. Hold on with one hand to the neck-strap and take with your other hand a pluck of the mane higher up the neck. Try to keep balance. The horse will do the rest.”
It was a very modest jump. It was in fact a gap between some blackthorn bushes on a low bank. But the movement was strange to her. She lost her balance as soon as the horse stepped up onto the bank and as the horse went down again on the other side, she slid forward out of the saddle and onto the ground. The horse took a few more steps to where Henry was waiting and then started to graze as if nothing had happened.
Julia lay still in the grass. She was not hurt other than in her pride and self-confidence and she did not feel any pain. But sharper than any physical pain to her was the sadness of having lost the understanding, the care and the protection that she had come to expect from Henry and that had now, after an agonising morning, culminated in an ignominious fall.
When Henry saw that she did not get up, a sudden fear overwhelmed him. He jumped off his horse, forgetting all the warped thoughts that had been on his mind, rushed to where she lay and knelt down, saying anxiously, “Are you alright?”
The old, familiar care and gentleness in his voice immediately assuaged the pain in Julia's heart. She lifted her head, then sat up and shook it slowly. In the relief of seeing her unhurt, Henry quite forgot himself and embraced her, murmuring, “Oh, thank goodness, thank goodness ...”
He held her tightly and she rested her head on his shoulders, content that he was with her again. It lasted only a few moments. Then he laughed in a shy, boyish way and stood up again.
“I thought for a moment that you had hurt yourself,” and he held out his hand to help her. She accepted it with a smile.
August changed to September and there was much work on the farm. Henry tried to be with the work as much as possible, giving orders, encouraging the men and as ever lending a hand any time this seemed necessary. He kept the men busy and they worked harder than they had at any time in recent previous years. Surprisingly they preferred it better.
Quite often, the work prevented Henry riding out with Julia and she would go alone. She did not particularly like it. Whether it was apprehension or just loneliness, she missed Henry to such an extent that she sometimes tried to persuade him to come with her, but he usually excused himself.
Sometimes she would ride all the way to Midleton to grandfather and have lunch with him. Outwardly the old man appeared to have recovered from his illness. But she knew it had taken away from his strength, and with concern she saw that he had aged visibly since the first time she had met him. He was in need of company in his own house and she tried to provide it.
One afternoon she came home late and missed tea. She had not seen Henry during the entire day and in the evening decided to visit him in his sitting room upstairs. He was surprised and pleased that she should come to tell him her experiences of the day and made her welcome.
Julia explained how she had found grandfather again much older.
“He has been such a big help when you were away and I was all alone here expecting my baby. He was always very sweet to me. I do love him. It is such a pity that he lives there alone in that large house. I must go and see him more often.”
Henry nodded and agreed, “It is very good of you to give him so much of your time.”
“But,” she continued, “I don't like riding all the way on my own. You must come with me again. Grandfather would like it so much and I would not feel so alone on the road.”
They were sitting each at one end of the large settee in front of the unlit fire. It was growing dark outside. Henry felt the satisfaction of a good day's work and was now content to hear Julia talk about other things. He would have preferred to just sit there in the half light and listen to her voice. But she was repeating her plea to come with her to see his father. So instead, he got up and lit the oil lamp. Still wishing to avoid an answer, he took a bottle of port from the cupboard and poured Julia and himself a drink. Eventually he sat down to continue the conversation.
“I will ride out with you again as soon as all the grain is in. It won't be long now. Another three or four days should finish it provided the weather holds out. You know the farm did not do very well over the last few years and there is little money left. You kept the books yourself. Prices at the moment are bad and we cannot afford to take on more men, so we are obliged to do the work with the present staff and all work a bit harder. Unless I am there the whole day and work myself, the job just won't get done on time.”
“I know I should not ask you,” replied Julia, resigning herself to the logic of Henry's argument, but looking a little sad about it just the same. Henry noticed her disappointment and suddenly he said, “I will tell you what; when the grain is in, not only will I exercise my horse again, but I will go out to the cubbing meets and you must come with me. Will you do that?”
“All right, I will,” she replied cheerfully. But then she added, more cautiously, “If it is not too far away. And you will stay with me, won't you, and not ask me to jump those enormous banks that you always boast about?”
He reassured her and was happy to hear the excitement in her voice.
“Do you think I should wear a skirt and ride side saddle?” she asked.
“Yes, I think you should. Exercise with the side saddle from now on. We will do a few practice jumps before we go out, so that you get used to the different seat.”
They talked on for almost an hour, like happy children looking forward to a new adventure.
And so, one Saturday in late September, they rode out early in the morning to the cubbing meet at Leamington Glen. It was less than half an hour from Donoghmore House to the Glen. Julia wore her black riding skirt and jacket with a top hat and veil. She looked very smart and not nearly so childish, Henry thought, as when she married his son James in London, now almost two years ago.
There were only ten other riders at the meet. Julia was the only lady. She had met most of the gentlemen but did not know any of them well. She could not even remember their names with the exception of the Master and Captain Carey of course. Henry introduced her and she acknowledged the lifting of eight successive hats with eight smiles and gracious nods. She realised that she was making an impression and she enjoyed it.
When the huntsman took the pack through a wicket leading into the glen, Julia had forgotten her fear and confidently followed Henry. They walked along a half overgrown bridle path until they came to an open field from where they could watch the hounds working in the glen. The other riders rode to the edge of the glen to be closer to the hounds, but Henry took Julia to the next field along the glen and away into a corner.
“When the hounds go,” he said, “and the field gallops away, we can watch it from here and follow them at a distance and at our own pace.”
It was a bright autumn morning. The sun had still sufficient strength to make them feel warm and comfortable in the shelter of the trees. The horses stretched their necks and nibbled at the grass. Henry explained how the hounds were working through the glen. But Julia's thoughts wandered away from the hounds to the peace and serenity of the Irish landscape with the blue sky above it. There was no one else in sight. The other riders in the next field were hidden by a large overgrown bank. In the far fields at the other side of the glen, cattle and sheep were grazing quietly.
Julia sighed contentedly and said, “Oh, how beautiful. I wish life would be like this forever.”
It took Henry a little by surprise. But the feeling expressed by her was too close to his own for him not to recognise it.
“It used to be like this,” he replied. “Not always perhaps, but very often,” and he added slowly, “Maybe the war was only a bad dream and it has passed away now. Who knows what life has still in store for us?”
They were silent for a while, each suddenly very conscious of the presence of the other in his life. Henry looked away over the glen as if watching the hounds, but there were none to be seen. At last, hesitating with his words he said, “We must have the courage to start again. The land is still there and nature has not changed. The war had no effect on it. Nothing will ever effect the land. All we have to do...”
Suddenly the horses lifted their heads and pricked their ears forward. Henry stopped talking and turned his head towards the gap where the huntsman, the master and the other riders appeared in full gallop.
“Hold your horse,” he said quickly to Julia. “The hounds must have gone away. Don't let your horse follow the others. You would lose control. We will watch where they are going and follow them at our ease.”
The riders disappeared through a second gap at the far end of the field. Henry waited another two minutes and then led Julia at a trot through the gaps. The next field was a very large one. Henry knew the others would have gone diagonally across it to a gate leading to a lane. Coming through the second gap, Julia's horse broke into a canter. She let him go and Henry followed close behind. When they arrived at the gate, it had already been closed again. Henry dismounted and opened it. As Julia came through, he caught her eye and saw that she was excited and happy. They smiled at each other.
Henry closed the gate again, got up and trotted ahead down the lane with Julia following. Suddenly he pulled up and waved his arm.
“They went over the bank left-handed,” and turning in the saddle to look at Julia. “Shall we jump in and follow them?”
“Yes, alright, if you think I can manage that.”
“There is nothing to it; just follow me. Keep his nose on my tail and hold on to the neck strap. He will hop over it once he sees his pal going.”
It was a simple jump, free on either side. The horses that had jumped before them had cleared it of briers and overgrowth and Julia landed without difficulty on the other side. They found themselves now in rough country with tall grass, wet ground and patches of gorse bushes. There was no sign of either hounds or riders and the tracks of the other horses were difficult to follow. They cantered for about a mile to a covert of bushes and small birch and pine trees, hoping to find the hounds there. But after having trotted along the edge of the covert a number of times, it was obvious that there were no hounds.
“What a pity,” said Henry. “We have lost them. I did not think they would go that fast.”
Julia noticed he was clearly disappointed, and with regret in her voice she said, “I am sorry; it is my fault. I have held you up,” and softly, with a shy little smile she added, “But I enjoyed the ride very much.”
What she said, but particularly the way in which she said it, made up for all Henry’s disappointment at a lost trip and he cheerfully replied, “Never mind; we will go back. Maybe they did not go to this covert at all.”
The horses were sweating after the gallop in the warm weather, so they walked them back to cool them off. As they came to the bank back into the boreen, by sheer coincidence the field appeared coming from the far end of the little road. They had the hounds with them. Henry and Julia were still in the field and when they were level with the others, with only the bank between them, Henry asked one of the riders, “Where did they go? We thought they had gone for the far covert.”
“No,” came the reply. “They swung right-handed across the boreen again and back into the glen. We have only just got them out.”
After the hounds had passed and they themselves were back in the lane, Henry turned to Julia and said with great satisfaction, “You see. We have not missed a thing. In fact we got more than the others.”
“Yes we did,” she replied softly. “We had a lovely day,” and she turned her head towards him, found his eyes and smiled happily and without fear.
5. THE RAID
The plan that Pat Duggan had in mind when he asked his lieutenants to find out the pattern of the movements of the Military and the Constabulary in the Midleton area remained unfortunately unfulfilled, being overtaken by other events. Important changes were being made in the command structure of the Irish Republican Army. County Cork had been subdivided into three brigade areas and Midleton came under the Cork City Brigade. Gradually the brigade staff in Cork was bringing the units outside the city under its control.
It is not surprising that, in a guerilla movement, where local commanders are in the habit of making up their own mind, central direction when it comes about is not readily accepted. Pat Duggan was certainly one who struggled with it. The Volunteers (as the members of the Republican Army were usually called) in Midleton in the Summer of 1919 were not numerous. This was partly due to Pat Duggan's belief that a guerrilla force in such a situation as Midleton, should be a small unit, well-trained and well-armed.
Thus his lack of arms was of a far greater concern to him than any lack of numbers, and he was therefore more than surprised when Brigade HQ in Cork decided that Midleton’s strength should be increased to that of a Battalion instead of that of a small unit of fifteen or so men.
He had argued with the Brigade officers that there were no arms, that an abrupt increase in numbers would not give an opportunity to select properly, and that there were not enough men in his unit with sufficient experience to take command of the several companies that the Battalion would comprise. He brought many other valid objections, but Cork insisted.
However, Pat Duggan had also spent fifteen years in the British Army and following orders was second nature to him. He therefore did as he was told and was duly rewarded with a promotion to Battalion Commander and a seat on the Brigade Council. The first few months after his appointment, Pat was busy organising his new battalion; so busy that his thoughts of securing more arms retreated to the background. His instructions were to form three Companies of some fifty men each, but, as Pat had expected, it was proving difficult to recruit so many new Volunteers in any acceptable length of time. Cork therefore revised the target to initially two Companies of thirty men, and called it Phase 1, whereby the original plan, at least in theory, was saved.
Pat Duggan proposed his best officer, John Fitzpatrick, as Commander of one Company. For the other Company, he found it difficult to choose between Michael Leahy and Mick Ahern. Neither of the two was, in his view, very good. In the end, knowing him to be intelligent and believing that he would be very trustworthy, he selected Michael Leahy. John Fitzpatrick would also act as Deputy Battalion Commander, and to give him a promotion also, Mick Ahern was appointed deputy to John Fitzpatrick.
It was, nevertheless, a big disappointment for Mick. He considered himself a braver man and a better fighter than Michael Leahy, and could not understand why Pat Duggan or anyone else in Cork would select Michael Leahy as a Company Commander. Michael Leahy, in contrast, not surprisingly loved his new job, and in particular the recruitment side to it. Regularly, he organised meetings and discussion groups, and he spoke at all of them. They were long sincere speeches with heroic phrases and with quotations from Wolfe Tone and Pearse.
Michael Leahy’s success was considerable in the sense that more new recruits came forward in his area than in most other areas across County Cork. Pat Duggan observed it with a mixture of annoyance and apprehension. Annoyance because it was all so unmilitary and apprehension because the large numbers that came to Michael's meetings and parades were increasing the risk of discovery. But Brigade HQ was pleased and therefore Pat kept his annoyance to himself.
Mick Ahern disliked the success of the other man. He was a bad speaker and no match for Michael Leahy in debate. Neither did he care much for political ideology. He simply believed that war should be fought with bullets and not with words. His faith in Pat Duggan, which was originally shaken when he was not selected as Company Commander, disappeared almost completely when Pat Duggan now seemed to accept the flow of words of Michael Leahy as a worthy and military contribution to the defeat of British Rule over Ireland.
Mick considered the whole thing a betrayal of the promise to fight. But if others had betrayed their promise, that was no reason for him to do the same. And so he came to his own decision to fight, not as he saw it in rebellion against his superiors, but in fulfilment of what he had undertaken to do. He had one revolver of his own; that was all. Therefore the first thing was to obtain more arms. Earlier in the year, John Fitzpatrick had proposed that some country houses of Loyalists should be raided, but the idea had been turned down by Pat Duggan. Mick had accepted the rejection then, but it now came back into his mind, and for a number of reasons he decided to raise the matter again with his immediate superior John Fitzpatrick.
In the first place he believed, wrongly, that John was equally disappointed with the conduct of the Midleton Battalion. Secondly, he was, rightly, of the opinion that company commanders had authority to decide on restricted and local actions. And finally and importantly, John Fitzpatrick also had a revolver.
John Fitzpatrick found it difficult to deny that he, as Company Commander, could decide on a small raid on a country house. However, he was sensible enough to appreciate that in the Midleton situation the matter should be cleared with Pat Duggan. At the same time, he realised that discussing it with Pat would kill the whole thing dead and this might be explained by Mick as a lack of courage on his part.
So, John Fitzpatrick did what most people do when faced with a difficult decision; he felt uncomfortable, said he would think about it, and hoped the problem would go away. He did not report it to Pat Duggan either, and, when, a week later, Mick Ahern asked him for the loan of his revolver, he gave it, pretending not to know what the weapon would be used for.
Old Col. O'Neill had sufficiently recovered from his illness to resume his regular visits to his Club in Cork. He had gone to the Club for many years now; in fact, ever since he retired from the Army to live permanently in his house in Midleton. Before the War he would go twice or three times a week but as he grew older and his friends fewer, he had reduced it to one visit a week for drinks and dinner with the old friends still around.
The train connection to Cork was very convenient and the distances to walk to and from the station at either end were not very long. Since his illness, however, he had found the walking too tiring and was wondering whether he should not have himself brought to and collected from the station, or indeed stay the night at the Club to travel back to Midleton the next morning.
When, on this particular evening in early October, he was walking home from the Midleton station, he made up his mind to stay, for the winter months at least, in the Club until the next morning. It was a quarter to eleven and the night was rather dark, so that, at times, he could not even see the hedges at the side of the road. Once or twice he stumbled, and he almost fell when he came to his front gate. He opened the gate and started to walk the twenty five odd yards through the front garden to the door of the house.
Suddenly two masked figures sprang forward from behind the shrubs on the right-hand side. One moved quickly behind him and pressed a revolver in his back. The other placed himself at his right elbow, pointed a revolver at him and hissed through his mask, “If you make any noise you will be dead. Do as we say and you will not be harmed. Move on now to the front door, slowly, and don't stop.”
The old man was completely taken by surprise. He was tired and the unexpected event had stunned him. He did not say anything and started, mechanically, to walk towards the door. After a few paces he recovered a little from the shock and asked, “Who are you and what do you want?”
“We will tell you in a minute,” came the reply. “Just walk on now until you are at the door. We want you to ring the bell, just like you always do, and when your housekeeper opens the door, we will all go in together and then we will tell you what we want.”
“The money I have in the house is not worth your trouble; you have come to the wrong address.” The response was curt. “We don't want your money.”
They were almost near the front door. O'Neill had by now regained his presence of mind and was getting annoyed. “What the hell do you want then?” he shouted.
The man walking behind slammed his revolver hard in O'Neill's back and said angrily, “Shut up, old fool, or I will shoot you. This is a special unit of the Irish Republican Army. Do as we..”
The words “Irish Republican Army” enraged O'Neill and he lost all prudence. He turned around and lifted his walking stick to strike the man behind him shouting, “Why, you bloody rebels, traitors..”
Before he had even turned half way round, the man had crashed the butt of his revolver on his head. The blow was softened by O’Neill’s bowler hat; nevertheless, it was hard enough to throw the old man off balance. He threw his arms wildly around, but before he actually fell the other man fired his revolver. The bullet hit O'Neill in the left arm, going clean through and leaving a large wound.
“Fool,” roared the first man. “You could have shot me and you have alarmed the whole neighbourhood. We better run for it, before the peelers get here.”
As they passed through the front gate he shouted, “Run away,” and a few more shadowy figures appeared from behind the bushes and started to run.
Miss Moloney had been housekeeper with the O'Neill family for almost twenty years. She had been engaged by the late Mrs. O'Neill and after the death of the latter had served O'Neill Snr. or “the Colonel” as she called him, as well as she could. She knew exactly at what time he would arrive on Wednesdays from Cork and would wait for him to open the door, take his coat and make perhaps a hot-water bottle or a glass of warm milk. It was after her usual bedtime and as she was waiting in the kitchen, she had dozed off over her knitting work.
The shot woke her up. She did not know what it was, but was vaguely aware that she had also heard the sound of people running away over the drive. It frightened her and she wondered if the Colonel was on his way home and would have noticed anything. Only after some time had passed, did it occur to her that she should look outside.
She found O'Neill lying on the ground a few yards away from the front door. He was dazed but conscious. She bent down over him and asked, “Are you alright Sir, can you get up?”
O’Neill just nodded. With her help he scrambled to his feet again. Leaning heavily on her he stumbled into the hall, and in the gaslight she saw the blood streaming out of his left sleeve, over his hand and dripping onto the ground.
“Holy Mary, Mother of God,” she screamed.
“Hit in the arm,” O'Neill mumbled. “Must stop the bleeding. Take my coat off.”
With great difficulty, she took off his overcoat, guided him into the nearest room, which was the drawing room, and got him into an armchair where she finally managed to slip off his jacket. Then she tried to roll up his shirt sleeve. It was difficult to uncover the upper arm and she got herself a pair of scissors to cut the entire sleeve off, and when at last she pulled the soaked piece of linen away the blood gushed out of the wound.
She realised that the arm had to be bandaged but she did not quite know how. O'Neill was silent. She eventually decided to go upstairs and fetch some towels. When she came back he had fainted. She had been very confused and frightened ever since the sound of the shot. The sight of the old man, hanging limply in the armchair, his wounded arm outstretched over one of its sides and with the blood still running onto the carpet, brought her into a state of panic. She dropped the towels, and ran out of the house down the road to the cottage where the gardener was living. It was only a few hundred yards.
The gardener had also heard the shot and the sound of footsteps. He had come out of his bed to look outside, but not noticing anything unusual, had gone back to bed again. When Mrs. Moloney knocked loudly and urgently on his front door, he was out of bed quickly. Nevertheless, it took some time before he understood that the Colonel was injured and then he had to get dressed and explain to his wife why he was leaving. By the time the two arrived back in the drawing room, John James O'Neill was dead.
It was two hours past midnight before a Constable from Midleton arrived at Donoghmore House to say that Major O'Neill should go over to his father's house immediately because an accident had happened. Henry called Julia and Miss Jennings to say that he was going. Julia insisted to come with him, and together they put the horse to the gig and trotted as fast as the animal would go to Midleton.
When they arrived they found a Constable posted at the gate. He brought his hand to his helmet in salute but did not say anything. The front door was opened by the Rector. Inside the hall, he broke the news to them by simply saying:
“It was a very serious accident. I am sorry to say that he is dead.”
He led them into the drawing room, where Henry found his father laid out on a white blanketed table brought in from another room, a pillow under his head and his arms stretched out alongside his body. The body was covered with a white sheet but the Rector drew it back so that the face and shoulders became visible. The face was ash white. It looked very tired but peaceful. Tears welled up in the eyes of the dead man’s son. He sank to his knees and tried to say the prayers that he had learned in his childhood but could not remember the words. Behind him Julia was quietly sobbing.
It was some time before Henry noticed the presence in the room of two others; the doctor and the local R.I.C. Sergeant. He knew them both. The pool of blood on the carpet next to the armchair had been cleaned up and a large sheet was covering the stain as well as the chair.
“What happened?” Henry asked, not addressing anyone in particular.
“We don't know,” replied the Sergeant, “There is a bullet wound in the left arm. The artery was severed. It probably happened just outside the front door. His housekeeper, Miss Moloney, must have brought him in. We found him sitting in the armchair over there. He must have died very soon after being hit. Miss Moloney is still too shocked to provide any details. The gardener came to call us, but he only heard the shot and does not know anything about what happened.”
“The injury is severe,” added the doctor, “but immediate attention to stop the bleeding might have saved his life.”
When Mick Ahern decided to make a run for it after his friend had fired the shot, he did not even know that the Colonel had been hit. In fact he considered himself lucky that the bullet had missed his own head and cursed his friend for being so careless. He certainly had had no intention of killing the old man. The raiding party had agreed amongst themselves beforehand that in case O'Neill would resist they would knock him unconscious and search the house for arms, or abandon the plan.
The next morning the news was all over Midleton. Mick could, at first, not believe that the blow on the head would have killed a man. But the evening papers from Cork confirmed the Colonel was dead with a headline on the front page.
COL. O'NEILL MURDERED AT HIS HOME IN MIDLETON
Late yesterday night Col. J. J. O'Neill, when returning home from a visit to his club in Cork, was killed by a single shot from an assassin waiting for him behind the cover of some shrubs near the front door of his house. The Colonel, although heavily wounded, managed to stagger into his house, where his housekeeper, Miss Moloney, immediately raised the alarm. When Doctor McKenna and the Rev. Gordon arrived, they found that the Colonel had already died from shock and loss of blood. Early this morning, the RlC in Midleton said they had no indication as to the identity of the murderer or his motives....
Public opinion in Midleton however did not have the patience to wait for such indications and soon rumours began to circulate. One rumour was to the effect that the Colonel when coming home had surprised a gang of burglars who were about to break into the house. With his usual courage he had challenged them and in the ensuing fight had been shot. Some people even whispered that a very reliable source had told them that the perpetrators were drunken soldiers from the barracks in Midleton. According to another rumour however, he had been killed by the Republicans because he was an army officer of the old tradition and had made no secret of his contempt for the rebels.
It did not take Pat Duggan long to find out who was responsible for the unfortunate affair. He only had to talk to his two lieutenants who were the proud owners of revolvers. Mick Ahern fist denied that he had anything to do with it. By the time he was prepared to admit that he had organised the attack, the rank and file of the Battalion had found out that some of their own had participated and then produced their own version of the incident, to the effect that O'Neill Snr. had been an intelligence agent of the Army and was executed on orders from Cork.
None of the participants, not even Mick Ahern in his confession to Pat Duggan, was prepared to say that it had been a cack-handed affair which had ended in a disaster that nobody had wanted or foreseen. But then, even if someone had told the truth, nobody would have believed it. The official version that would eventually find its way into the history of the I.R.A. was that Col. O'Neill had been shot when violently resisting an order to hand over the firearms that he had in his possession. But that explanation came only much later and meanwhile Sergeant Musgrave and a detective from Cork had the problem of finding a motive and a culprit.
It had taken a full day before Miss Moloney had sufficiently recovered to tell her story. It confirmed only that the Colonel's life might have been saved and that the shot was probably an accidental one. The Sergeant knew of course about the rumours that were going around. But the facts of the case did not support the suggestion of a deliberate killing, so he did not pursue the idea of a rebel action seriously.
Henry O'Neill, like the Sergeant, could not accept any of the rumours as a reasonable explanation. When asked by Julia he said he believed there had been some sort of an argument, but that the shooting must have been an accident. It did not satisfy Julia. She believed he had been murdered and that Republican terrorists were involved.
If the Hon John James O'Neill had during his lifetime never found the glory and the reward to which he had aspired, the circumstances of his death now brought him, in an unexpected way, at least a glorious funeral. On Friday afternoon the remains were removed from the house to the Protestant Church of St. John the Baptist in Midleton.
The service started simply enough. The coffin was carried by the undertaker's men out of the house to the hearse waiting outside the front gate. The male relatives and a few close friends came out closely behind to follow the hearse on foot. Outside the gate on the main road, some neighbours and sympathisers were waiting to join. And thus the small procession made its way slowly towards the town. But this small beginning was to prove deceptive. By the railway station a large number of people were waiting for the procession to pass, and more lined the road between the station and the Green. On the Green itself there was a further crowd, all lifting hats, making the sign of the cross and then falling in with the procession. And as the hearse passed them and moved down Main Street, other people came from sidewalks, and out of their houses, the pubs and the shops to follow the remains of Col. J.J. O'Neill, late of the Irish Dragoons, sadly killed by persons unknown.
It became a procession such as Midleton had never seen before. The wide thoroughfare from the Green to the little lane leading to the little Church was filled to the brim with people. Whether it was out of curiosity or in sympathy with Henry, or in support of conservative political views, or to show condemnation of an evil deed, or merely the vivid interest that the Irish have in funerals is impossible to say, but almost the entire population of the town was there.
Henry, walking immediately behind the hearse, only noticed the full extent of the crowd when the cortege turned sharp right off Main Street into the lane towards the Church. Surprised, and in an absentminded effort to recognise the faces immediately behind, he stopped so that his brother-in-law from Dublin, who was also looking back, bumped into him. Confused, amazed and apologising, he hastily resumed his march.
It was to remain the only demonstration that Henry ever had or would have of popular interest in his father, because when the coffin was carried into the Church, the crowd had disappeared. Their Roman Catholic upbringing was stronger than their curiosity or whatever other sentiment that had compelled them to march behind the body of an old man, shot on his own doorstep. And so the prayers were said by only a handful of people, all of them of the Protestant faith and most of them of Unionist sympathies.
It did not stop the Cork Examiner from writing about the massive attendance at the removal, the esteem in which the late Colonel J. J. O'Neill had been held by the community and the revulsion that every decent man and woman felt against the abominable crime committed. It also recorded the Colonel's parentage, the schools he attended, the name of his regiment, his various tours of duty, his clubs and his surviving children.
Newspapers print what their customers like to read and on Saturday morning, Midleton read the Cork Examiner with great satisfaction. That same morning, the Hon. John James O'Neill was quietly laid to rest in the graveyard of the Church of St. John the Baptist next to the grave where his wife had been buried twelve years earlier.
Although the attendance for the funeral itself was limited, and the small church only half full, it was distinguished and the quality made up for the lack of numbers. The fifth Earl was there of course, with his wife and children. The General Officer commanding H.M. Forces in Southern Ireland, a representative of the Lord Lieutenant, a party of officers from the Regiment, the Chief Inspector of the R. I. C., the Chairman of the Cork and County Club, the Master of the United Hunt, all were there.
The Bishop of Cork performed the ceremony. He spoke of a lifetime devoted to service and duty, of loyalty to King and Country, of military virtues and the fighting spirit that our departed brother in Christ had shown during his lifetime and indeed on his last day when attacked by criminals whose motives were hatred and greed; an example to us all at a time when the very foundations of our society were being attacked by wild and irresponsible men. The congregation sang “Abide with Me” and “Onwards Christian Soldiers”. It was all as it ought to be: solemn, correct and superior.
“It was a pity the old man could not witness his own funeral. He would have thoroughly approved of it.” These thoughts more than anything else helped Henry to control his emotions. He was keenly aware of being the son and chief mourner on the occasion of this impressive funeral of a retired cavalry colonel and of having a duty to perform; a duty to behave as his father would have wished, and not to shed tears but to accept, courteously and correctly, the condolences of visitors – “Thank you and thank you for coming” – while trying to control the twists in his face. A duty to reply clearly and without faltering – “Yes indeed, it will be strange without him,” with the heartbreaking sobs of a young girl behind you, and to remain focused at all cost on the absolute necessity of saying clearly and audibly.
“We will all miss him very much.”
After the funeral the family went to Donoghmore House for lunch. It usually takes a wedding or a funeral to get a family together. Virtually all descendants of the third Earl, Henry's grandfather, were there. The last to arrive had been Henry's cousin from Berkshire with his wife. They had travelled from Fishguard and had arrived in Midleton only just in time for the funeral. They were therefore also the last to ask the question: “What actually happened?”
Like everyone else, they asked as soon as this was decently possible, which was when drinks were being served before lunch. With the house full of guests, and having suppressed his many emotions whilst answering questions and accepting condolences all that morning and the day before, it was perhaps understandable that Henry gave a short abrupt reply.
“He was shot on his own doorstep,” and before the Berkshire cousin could ask “by whom?” Henry, irritated and busy, had moved away to look after his old Aunt from Skibbereen, wife of the youngest son of the third Earl, a naval officer, who had died several years before his brother. But Henry’s brother's eldest son, who had heard the questions and eager to show his knowledge of the case, answered in Henry's place, “We don't know for certain. We can only guess.”
After next explaining the circumstances of the accident, he concluded, “Most people in the locality believe he was attacked by rebels. I am inclined to believe that myself.”
“But why would anyone wish to attack a harmless old man?” the cousin asked.
Henry had now returned and had overheard the last question. Before his young cousin could further reply, he said, “It was an accident. There must have been an argument and an accident happened.”
Then Julia caught his attention to say that luncheon was ready and Henry had to leave again. It gave the young Lord an opportunity to continue.
“Henry does not see the truth for what it is. These rebels are getting more insolent every day. That is because the Government is not firm enough. They are cowards with little support among the simple country people. You should have seen the crowd yesterday in Midleton. That shows you where their sympathies are.”
It left the cousin from Berkshire nonplussed.
There were sixteen persons for lunch. One would have had to go back to pre-war days to remember such a large number sitting down in the dining room. It was a little more than the table could accommodate in comfort, but then nobody looked for comfort. The arrangements had been a worry to Henry with only Miss Jennings to look after everything and a young inexperienced Julia to act as lady of the house.
Henry noticed Lady Jane observing the proceedings, and particularly Julia's performance, critically. To his relief, Julia did admirably. After her hysterical outburst over the grave, she seemed to have regained her self-control. She was seated between the Earl and Frank Townsend, the husband of Henry's elder sister, a barrister from London. The last and only time she had met the latter was at her wedding reception in London. It was natural that their conversation should be about London and about the few common friends they had. Townsend's children were of Julia's age.
Despite the emotions of the funeral, Julia became fascinated by the remarks of the elderly Townsend about life in post-war London. In her eagerness to find out more, she asked one question after another, sometimes only half listening to the answers, and imagining how it would be to go again to the theatre, to dances and dinner parties with smart young people as if there had been no war, no marriage, no husband killed in action, and most of all, no Ireland.
Townsend noticed how she was carried away, forgetting all else around her. At last he gently put his hand on hers and whispered, “It is time to ring the bell.”
Julia looked round startled and saw everyone long finished with the soup. Henry seemed annoyed, Lady Jane looked with mild reproach, but old Aunt Gwendolyn was smiling encouragingly. Julia blushed, realising her mistake, and rang the bell, almost in panic.
During the rest of lunch, Julia was more attentive and took care to converse also with her right-hand neighbour. And at the end of lunch she rose at exactly the right time to lead the ladies away from the table into the drawing room. But her mind could not give up London, and she fretted until she found an opportunity to sit with Mrs. Townsend, to ask more questions about the things girls do in London.
It was seven o'clock when the last visitors had left, either to find their way back home or to a hotel in Cork City; all except Aunt Gwendolyn who was considered too old to travel so late in the day either home to Skibbereen or to a hotel. Sitting in his study with the tensions of the day over, Henry felt empty and lost. The strong emotions had evaporated and there was now only a great sadness and loneliness left. He tried to read but found it difficult to concentrate. His thoughts kept wandering away, from his dead father to earlier moments in his life, to the memory of his wife, the companionship of a shared life and a shared bed, and all the good things that had been and would never come back.
He was relieved when Julia came up at nine with tea and some sandwiches. She had just helped Aunt Gwendolyn to bed. Henry had, earlier in the day, been annoyed about Julia's inadequate behaviour, but it was forgotten now and he was pleased to see her. Julia apologised for her little mistakes during lunch, but Henry waved it away and insisted that she had been splendid, saying, “Father would have been impressed with you,” and then added softly, but very seriously, “but then, he always approved of what you did.”
They both had had a tiring and emotional day and somehow Henry’s remark was too much for Julia. Tears welled up in her eyes again. She bent her head into her hands and sat there, sobbing quietly, forlorn, lost in the maze of her young life. Henry felt a new compassion for her that he had not felt before. He went towards her and put his hand gently on her hair, but she did not lift her head and seemed unaware of his proximity. He sat down beside her, put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her gently towards him. Then, suddenly, she threw her arms around his neck, buried her head into his chest and sobbed, “Oh please, take me away, take me away. It is so lonely here and I am afraid, so afraid..“
He lifted her head with both his hands and kissed her softly on the forehead. But she raised her head further and with closed, weeping eyes searched with her lips for the mouth that had kissed her and when she found it, all her frustrated passion and love flowed out like a mountain torrent. It penetrated through all the defences that he had patiently and skilfully built up since the death of his wife, and when their lips parted, their relationship had changed, profoundly and for good.
Henry spent a restless night in bed, lying awake for long periods and turning over and over again in his mind what had happened between Julian and him. When finally he fell asleep he was visited by confused dreams. His father appeared as a much younger man, and his wife was also there and in her early twenties like when they were courting. His father and his wife seemed to know each other well. Then, suddenly, they were all together, with the rest of the family at his father's funeral. He remembered later that he wondered how his father could be at his own funeral, but now that he was there, it became all the more important to behave correctly.
He could not let his father down at his own funeral. His wife and Miss Jennings were in the kitchen preparing lunch for the guests, but when she came back to the dining room, it was not his wife but Julia. When he asked her where his wife was she replied that his wife had gone home with his father. They all had lunch and he did not mind that his wife and his father had gone, until they suddenly came back to his bedroom and he woke up frightened and confused.
Outside it was just about light. Although it was a Sunday and breakfast would not be ready for another hour and a half, Henry got up, dressed and went out. It was a cool, windy autumn morning with a promise of rain from a low grey sky. He left the house by the front door and walked down the drive but then, changing his mind, climbed over a gate and went into a field where cattle were grazing.
He would remember, later, how he had noticed that the grass was getting poor and that he had remarked to himself that they soon would have to start feeding the cattle extra hay and how fortunate they were in having a good crop, so that they would be able to keep the cattle until early next year, when prices would be higher. But he would not remember how and why he had, during that walk through the soft wet grass, decided that it was no use pretending that it had not happened or that it was just another event in a long and emotional day. Neither would he remember how he resolved, on that windy October morning, the manifold problems of the difference in their ages, of their relationship of father- and daughter-in-law, and of how they could continue to live together afterwards under the same roof, and in a community with rigid views on family life.
He clearly knew now that he loved Julia and that she was the only one who could repair his broken soul. Thus, when he had reached the boundary of his land and was looking out over the wooden glen below, he made up his mind to tell her and do away with all pretence. That, and a euphoric feeling of happiness that suddenly engulfed him as he was walking back to the house, he would, much later, always remember.
Having made the decision, he was eager to speak to Julia as soon as a suitable opportunity presented itself. But during breakfast, Aunt Gwendolyn was there. She went with them to Church and then stayed for lunch, to find out afterwards that she could not get home to Skibbereen on that day either. They assured her that she was welcome to stay for another night, and after having ascertained that there was a convenient train connection for Gwendolyn on Monday morning, Henry finally found the opportunity to suggest a walk to Julia.
They went past the yard and up the boreen leading to the far fields on the northern side of the farm. The strong wind had dried out the grass in the field but in the ground was still soft with small pools of water here and there. Julia tried to step from one dry spot to another but as she found it difficult to keep her balance, Henry extended his hand to her in support. She accepted it with a smile. At the end of the boreen they opened a gate and walked into the field. The going was much easier now, but instead of releasing Henry's hand, Julia took his arm and pressed it gently against her side.
Doing the ordinary things of an ordinary Sunday had made Henry's determination to speak about his feelings considerably less than what it had been early in the morning. But Julia's new and, as it seemed, spontaneous token of affection gave him the encouragement he needed.
“I have been wondering since yesterday evening,” he began hesitantly, “whether it was a mistake or whether it was real.”
Julia, quite perceptibly loosened her tight grip on his arm, as if she was afraid that something dreadful was about to happen. He noticed it, but having started he could not stop. “I think on my part it was real,” he added.
Julia at once fondly squeezed his arm again and leaned her head against his shoulder. All through the morning he had had, against his better judgement, doubts about how she would react, but now that she responded in this simple, unaffected way, he was suddenly filled with joy. He stopped, turned round facing her and exclaimed, “Oh, dear Julia, I love you. Please stay with me.”
But before he could say more, she had flung her arms around his neck and kissed him.
And there they stood; two lost children who had finally found each other, somewhere in a windswept field. Their happiness, unburdened as yet by thoughts of the future, seemed to last forever. Until at last Julia withdrew herself, took his arm again and walked on. Henry, who was still a little overwhelmed by the stormy turn that events had taken, eventually said cautiously: “I am so glad I have spoken to you. It has taken a load off my mind.”
“I will stay with you. I always wanted to stay.” They were the first words that she spoke. She said them cheerfully, yet seriously. But then she added, “At least I can now call you Henry.”
It broke the solemnity of the occasion. They laughed and were happy, forgetting for a moment the sadness of their world.
6. AN AMBUSH
The violent death of Col. O'Neill continued to have its influence on the Midleton Battalion of the Irish Republican Army. The true facts did not remain a secret for the rank and file very long. When there is glory at stake nobody wishes to remain anonymous and Mick's partner in the raid was soon openly admitting that he had fired the fatal shot. Mick himself was, strange as it might seem, troubled by his conscience. He had never intended to harm anyone. Although he had not himself killed the old man, he felt nevertheless responsible for his death. But the lads considered him a hero, much to the annoyance of Pat Duggan.
Pat had no feelings about the morality of shooting an ex-Army Officer, whether accidental or otherwise. For one thing, he was annoyed because he had not been consulted, but more importantly because of the clumsy way in which the whole sortie had been carried out. Brigade Headquarters asked, naturally enough, for a report and this presented a difficult choice. Either he had to say that he knew nothing about it until it was all over, thus admitting that his control over the Battalion was less than what it should be, or he had to accept responsibility for planning an action that was politically ill-conceived and militarily badly carried out.
Pat chose to speak the truth and because of that had to sit through a most uncomfortable Brigade Staff Meeting. His report was more an apology for what had happened than a record of it and it prompted one of his younger colleagues to ask, “Since when do we make apologies for shooting British Officers. Volunteers should be encouraged to take this sort of action, rather than be criticised for it.” To which an indignant Pat Duggan replied, “He was not a British Officer. He was an old man and since when do the IRA wage war on old men?”
“Well,” said the other man rather savagely, “To make some sort of war is better than to make no war at all, like some around this table seem to prefer.”
Pat's face became red under the insult. He stood up, leaned over the table towards his opponent, and thundered, “I know more about war than you will ever learn in the rest of your life.”
Sensing the emotions escalating, the Brigade Commander promptly intervened, concurring with Pat that the incident was unfortunate in the political sense in that it would not increase popular support for the movement, but then went on to pontificate about how the reaction of this meeting had again shown how necessary it was that some offensive action should be taken soon. But, although in essence vindicated, Pat Duggan still felt the young man's insult. The idea that some of his colleagues believed he was avoiding action was too much to bear, and on his way home to Midleton, Pat’s old plan of ambushing an army patrol and capturing their arms started to fill his mind. It was an audacious plan.
Several weeks later, on a Sunday afternoon, a group of men were playing a game of bowls on the road from Carrigtwohill to Midleton. There was nothing unusual about it. Bowls is played on Sundays between lunch and dinner on almost every country road in County Cork and there is always a group of spectators willing to lay bets on one player or another.
Someone with local knowledge might have remarked that there were on this occasion spectators who had never before shown an interest in the sport. And someone with experience of the game might have noticed that the standard of one or two players was extremely poor. However, this was not and could not have been apparent to the Corporal in charge of a cycle troupe of five soldiers returning home to Midleton after an uneventful day patrol.
The Corporal was from a small farm in the Scottish Highlands, where the land was poor and life hard. He had joined the Army during the last year of the War and had arrived in France just in time to see the German collapse and retreat. The War in Europe had been easy to understand. The Huns were the enemy and they had to be defeated. But in Ireland it was not so simple. Who exactly was the enemy? His sergeant spoke of rebels, but he had not seen any yet.
Although he had only recently arrived in Ireland, the Corporal had cycled long enough through East Cork to know that Sunday bowl players hated to be disturbed by traffic. He was therefore not surprised that the players only at the last minute, and then just barely, stepped out of the way to let his patrol pass. Only when he was passing the last player, did he sense something wrong. But by then it was too. Pat Duggan swung the hand which was holding the cast iron ball suddenly and with all his force to land it on the Corporal's jaw. Simultaneously, two other men jumped out from the side of the road and pulled him, half dazed from the blow, off his bicycle and pinned him to the ground.
Riding a bicycle, with a rifle slung crosswise over your back, is not the most advantageous position from which to face a sudden ambush, particularly if the attack comes from men jumping on top of you from a distance of less than two yards. The patrol did not have a chance and its fate was sealed in a matter of seconds. The soldiers cursed and yelled, but were pinned to the ground, four Volunteers to a soldier. The attackers did not speak a word, and rifles, bayonets and ammunition belts were quickly taken and the soldiers bound, hand and foot.
It was over as quickly as it started, and even before all the soldiers had been bound and gagged, a few of the Volunteers, carrying off the soldiers’ weapons, climbed over the bank into the adjacent field and set off without delay in a generally northerly direction.
Michael Leahy had been placed in charge of the party that was to finish the tying-up and gagging of the soldiers and then to drive away the bicycles. He had been very nervous when the soldiers approached, but so had all the others. But now that it was all over and a success he felt elated and made the mistake of spending more time on the last details than was necessary. Also he began to feel sorry for the soldiers and wished to make sure that they were as comfortable in their unfortunate positions as was possible under the circumstances. He had an apology and friendly word for each of them and was the last to leave the scene.
The whole plan had been very carefully prepared and worked out in great detail by Pat Duggan. He had in fact divided his men into three groups, and each group was to flee the scene by a different route and as promptly as possible. The first to get away were the men, a group of five led by Pat himself, carrying the stolen arms. And as soon as all the soldiers were tied up, the rest also dispersed, most cross-country, but some, including Pat Leahy, back up the road to Carrigtwohill on the soldiers’ bicycles.
The men on bicycle took a left at the first crossroads before Carrigtwohill to swing South towards Ballintubber Pier, where they dumped the bicycles in the water, creating the impression that they had taken a boat to the Great Island. A few hundred yards away they picked up their own bicycles, hidden behind a friendly farmer's hayshed and quickly made their way home to Midleton via the quiet backroads.
The others who had dispersed across the fields quietly found their ways to the various farms and cottages where they lived, except for Pat’s troupe of five carrying the spoils of victory, who after crossing the Cork railway line, made their way to a farm where a hayfloat was waiting. They hid the weapons under the hay, after which Pat and the farmer drove the innocent looking horse-drawn, hay-laden transport for another six miles over narrow roads to a final destination in the country North of Midleton. The other four meanwhile collected their bicycles out of a barn on the farm where they had left them, and went their way, looking as if nothing had happened.
And so, everyone, with the exception of Pat Duggan, was home having their tea, before the soldiers, after having been freed by passers-by, reported their misfortune to their superiors in Midleton barracks. By six o’clock all of Midleton and Carrigtwohill knew about the ambush, at which stage the Officer on duty in the barracks had finally started to muster new patrols to search for the attackers. But as it was almost dark when his men lined up on the barrack square, and considering that the rebels would be keen to try out their new rifles by cover of darkness, he postponed the operation until the morning.
Major McWhite, who was in command of the Cameron Highlanders in Midleton, had spent the Sunday in Cork with some officers of the Essex Regiment who were stationed there. He only heard the news of the ambush on his return to barracks at about 9:00 p.m.
McWhite had come through the war in France with just a slight injury; a piece of shrapnel into his right upper leg. It had given him six months rest in his native Scotland and a medal. He was sensible enough to be grateful for the fact that he had come to the end of the war without any permanent disability. All he wanted now was a reasonably quiet life. He had come to Ireland two months ago, in the expectation to find exactly that, and was hoping to bring his wife and family over. He had been briefed about the political problems in Ireland and the violent actions that the more extreme elements of the Nationalists had taken in recent months. But he did not see this as a serious problem. During his stay in Midleton he had not come across a single incident of violence with a political motive. For the rest, he considered the Irish to be as much part of Britain as the Scots and did not see any reason why they should rebel. He had therefore been disinclined to believe that they would.
Consequently the news of the ambush was a very unpleasant shock. It is of course always unpleasant when something embarrassing happens to troops under your command, but for McWhite the news was all the more unpleasant because it was clearly going to disturb the quiet life that he had come to Ireland for.
Unpleasant or not, there was little he could do that same night. He interviewed the Corporal, which for the unfortunate man was the fourth time he had been critically questioned by an officer since he had come home with his sad story. From the interview McWhite concluded that it had been a relatively large group, very well organised, in search of arms, without a desire to harm unnecessarily members of the British Forces. He went to bed, annoyed more than upset and realising that next morning he would have to take some action, but not knowing exactly what.
However, as it turned out, there was no need for any initiative. During breakfast a telegram arrived, announcing the visit of two officers from Headquarters in Cork. When they arrived two hours later, one of them turned out to be a Captain Young from Intelligence, the other a Lt. Col. from General Strickland's Staff. Sergeant Musgrave of the Midleton RIC had also been asked to attend.
McWhite had used the time until their arrival to brief himself thoroughly on what had happened and there were no questions he could not answer, except the rather crucial one regarding the names and whereabouts of the perpetrators. Sergeant Musgrave was, on that question, of not much help either. The Army Officers rather crudely suggested that Musgrave’s particular knowledge of the locality and its people would give him at least an idea of who might be involved or be sympathetic to the action, to which Musgrave simply replied that that was more than half the people in Midleton. It was the familiar problem of looking for the needle in the haystack. Knowing that the Republicans had done it reduced the problem merely to looking in half a haystack.
But the officers were not so easily dissuaded. “Surely you know someone who is prominent in the Republican movement and whom we can arrest on suspicion of being implicated in the affair?” asked Captain Young.
Musgrave merely shook his head in reply, thus leaving unanswered the question whether he knew a prominent Republican. It was very frustrating for the two officers, and the senior of the two now sourly said, “There is apparently an absolute lack of information on these rebels in Midleton. Tell me Sergeant, how can we improve that? Can we pay for information?”
It was a question directed as much to Musgrave himself as it was a question of general principle. But Musgrave again shook his head, “Very few Irish people will inform at all. And if they do, it is usually for personal reasons and not for money.”
“What about persons loyal to the Crown? Would they not help?” asked Captain Young now.
“Yes,” replied Musgrave. “They would. But because of that everyone else will make sure they don't know anything.”
Musgrave began to feel uncomfortable. He was impressed by the rank of the officers who were talking to him and slowly became aware that his replies were not very useful. In an effort to be more helpful he said, “The only possibility that I see is for one of the soldiers to meet an attacker by chance. Take a man out of uniform and send him into town, walking, shopping, drinking in pubs.”
He paused, and seeing hopeful expressions on the faces of the others he could not help his basic honesty taking over again. “But then again, in or out of uniform, everyone would immediately know him for what he was.”
Thus the conversation ended where it had started; with the officers from Cork only more vexed and frustrated. They questioned the Corporal again and everyone of the soldiers involved. They drove their motorcar to the scene of the accident and to the place where the bicycles had been found. But at the end of the day they were as wise as Major McWhite had been the evening before.
When parting, the Colonel summed it up in crisp military terms. “Gentlemen, it seems that we have, in East Cork, a war on our hands with a well organised enemy. We have the example of West Cork to tell us how it will develop. You can expect more of this sort of thing. They have arms now. Be ready for them and shoot before you are shot at.”
“Phew,” said McWhite to Musgrave after they had gone. “War he calls that. They pinched six rifles and made us look ridiculous. They did not harm anyone except the poor Corporal's jaw. Does he want us to start shooting at every game of bowls? We would only make ourselves more ridiculous.”
But Headquarters in Cork had a different view. They decided that there was a complete lack of intelligence in Midleton and if the RIC was unable, or perhaps unwilling, to do something about it, they would do it themselves. On paper it looked simple. Moreover it had been tried elsewhere in Ireland. Army Intelligence drew up a list of retired officers, living in and around Midleton. Those who were considered to be reliable would be approached with a request “to keep an eye open” and pass on any information about the rebels that they might discover.
Both Henry O'Neill and James Carey were considered to be good prospects and Captain Young was duly despatched to talk to both. He went to see Henry O'Neill first and to underscore his request for help he suggested that information on possible rebels might also bring some clue to the mystery of his father's murder. Henry replied, rather stiffly that if he had any information he would certainly pass it on to the Constabulary, but that at the moment he had none. He again expressed his belief that the rebels were not involved in his father's death and that the two incidents were unconnected.
It was from Young's point of view, a disappointing reaction and before leaving, he said blandly, “Major O'Neill, you know this area very well. You must be aware of persons who support the rebels and if you are not personally aware, it must be easy for you to find out from others, for instance from those who work for you. Are you prepared to give us, in confidence, names of people your staff or hands might mention?”
Henry was taken aback by the crudeness of the question. He hesitated at first, but then riposted curtly, “Are you suggesting, Captain, that someone should be arrested and interrogated merely because I, or somebody I know, believes that person to be a rebel? If that is your question, my answer is: No, I will not be a party to that sort of justice. And if you permit me to say so, I think the British Army should not be a party to it either.”
Captain Young rose from his chair, put on his cap, saluted and said, “I am sorry you see it that way. To catch criminals requires at times unusual methods. I trust the conversation will remain between ourselves.”
The interview with James Carey had an entirely different result. James had left the Army now almost a year ago to return to the farm that he had so unexpectedly inherited from his father. Anyone at his age would have counted himself very fortunate to be able to change the position of Captain in the Army for that of owner of a two-hundred-and-fifty acre farm. All his friends had envied him and when he had shown a slight hesitation to leave the Army, they had loudly proclaimed him to be a fool.
However, the plain fact was that after less than a year on the farm, James Carey was bored. Secretly, he was regretting that he had resigned his Commission, and there was no hope of getting it back, since even after the demobilisation, the War Office had twice as many officers as they could use. James Carey was no more an informer than any other Irishman, but as Captain Young explained his proposition, James began to see in it, not only a diversion that would break the monotony of rural life, but a possibility of getting back into the Army.
Thus, after he and Young had discussed at some length a number of ways in which information could be collected, James choosing his words carefully, said, “I am convinced that I can be of considerable help to you. But I believe I would work more effectively if I was called back into active service and posted to the Intelligence Section of General Strickland's Staff in Cork. I would almost guarantee that we would have these Sinn Feiners sorted out in no time.”
Young rose to the occasion and although careful to explain that he could not promise re-enlistment, he said he could guarantee payment for service rendered and there would be no great problem in extending the privileges of an officer on active service to Captain Carey. But it was perhaps better to discuss the matter further at HQ in Cork. So they agreed that Carey should visit Cork the next day.
HQ recognised a good thing when they met one and without hesitation Carey was promised money and anything he wanted short of a formal reappointment. They explained it would take too much time and moreover, it would not be good for the secrecy that was required. The essence of Carey's usefulness was his ability to move around Midleton without being suspected. James Carey had to admit this was right, but while accepting the arrangement as temporary, he argued that at some stage it would be found out that he worked for Intelligence and by that time he wanted the security of a formal appointment.
The plan on which they eventually decided was simple in concept. James Carey would provide names of persons who could conceivably be Volunteers in the Irish Republican Army. Sergeant Musgrave would be instructed by his superiors in Cork to arrest them, one by one, and bring them to the RIC barracks for questioning. They were then to give an account of their movements on the night of the attack on Col. O'Neill. Their answers would be taken down, but no pressure of any kind would be used during the interrogation. And while a suspect was waiting in his cell, the soldiers who had been the victims of the ambush, would observe him from a place where they could not be seen themselves.
Sergeant Musgrave gave his cooperation reluctantly. He believed it would be spending a lot of time for a very slim chance of success. After all, the raiders could as well have been from Cork City or from Queenstown or even Fermoy. But Musgrave was wrong and in due course, Michael Leahy was identified by the soldiers when summoned for interview.
It had been agreed beforehand that if someone was recognised, he would be released as if nothing was wrong, so as not to arouse any suspicion that a clue had been found. Indeed, Musgrave was not to be told and the operation was to simply continue. It would then be James Carey's special job to observe the person who had been recognised and to find out as much as possible about his movements, his friends, his family and his social activities. A tedious job, but if properly done it promised to be very rewarding.
7. DUNGOURNEY
The death of his father had made it inappropriate for Henry O'Neill to hunt. He was a gentleman of strict manners who took the old traditions of mourning seriously. So for the time being he determined he would generally avoid contact with his hunting friends, and thus on the first Wednesday of November, he declined to go to the opening meet. It was much to his regret; he loved the sport and it was the only social activity that remained to him.
The regret was greatly increased because of Julia. Ever since their relationship had so suddenly and dramatically changed, he wanted to be near her. But daily life in the house and on the farm hardly provided the opportunity except during meals and in the evenings. And then there was always Miss Jennings around from whom it all had to be kept away. Exercising horses was about the only escape. Even if it was not exactly an opportunity for romance, it enabled them at least to share an hour and a half without servants and farmhands looking in.
Although Julia had never hunted she had now begun to look forward to it, seeing in it an opportunity to bring them together for a whole day, and in the pursuit of a pastime that had, for her, the excitement of the unknown. Frustratingly, six weeks had to pass before Henry felt that the outward signs of mourning had been sufficiently observed. The hunt met that Saturday in Dungourney, which was about an hour's ride from Donoghmore House. Appropriately Henry still wore a black band around the arm of his pink hunting coat, and Julia was attired entirely in black, as they left the house.
It was a dull, dry day with little wind. The sky was overcast but occasionally the sun broke through the clouds as if to tell them that life was perhaps not as dark and uncompromising as it had seemed during the last few weeks. They had left in good time and could afford to walk the horses for the last few miles. Nearing the village they were overtaken by two other horsemen. They were none other than James Carey and his newly acquired friend Captain Young. Henry had expected to meet Carey, who was an excellent horseman and a keen follower of hounds. But the presence of Young was surprising. Carey introduced him as an old army friend who happened to be stationed in Cork.
The usual civilities were exchanged during which Captain Young pretended not to have met Henry before. It changed Henry's surprise into disquiet and at once gave rise to the suspicion that James Carey had accepted the proposition from Captain Young that Henry had refused.
They only talked about the weather, but while Henry was giving his considered opinion on the likelihood of rain later in the day he could not help wondering if other retired army officers in the Hunt – and there were at least a dozen of them – had been approached and if so, would Young pretend not to know them as well. Would they all suspect, like Henry was now doing, that some foolish game was being played and if so, how long would it remain a secret? And where would it all end?
As the Hunt moved off, Henry and Julia became separated from Carey and Young and, much to Henry's relief, found less troubling company. But when the hounds had been sent into the first covert and the field was waiting on the road, Captain Young walked his horse up to Julia, and resumed the earlier conversation.
“That was a very sad thing to happen to the old Colonel. We all heard about it in Cork. And it seemed so senseless. Did they ever find the criminals?”
“No,” replied Henry curtly, taking the question away from Julia. He had watched Captain Young coming up and was determined that he should not speak to Julia. But because a simple “No” to a question about the death of your father would probably be considered a little discourteous he added, “I believe it was an accident and not a deliberate murder. But I suppose we will never really know what happened.”
“The Constabulary does not seem to be very eager to find out either, as far as I can gather,” rejoindered Young testily.
But Julia was not going to be pushed out of the conversation. Before Henry could find an answer to Young's unfounded remark she said, “I don't think that is quite true Captain. But I do wish someone would do something so that these ghastly things do not happen again. Now they have stolen six rifles and someday these rifles will very likely be turned on us.”
James Carey, who was standing next to Captain Young, seemed more interested in hounds than in the conversation, but hearing Julia's outburst, he turned round and forgetting hounds for a moment, said, “My dear Mrs. O'Neill, I understand how you feel but let me assure you that something is …“, but then he bit his lip, realising he had said too much.
Captain Young smiled and smoothly carried on, “Captain Carey, I think, wishes to assure you that the Army is working hard, Mrs. O’Neill. I am sure your father-in-law will tell you the same. It is perhaps because not everything the Army is doing meets the public eye or can indeed be made public. But I, from the vantage of my modest staff job in Cork, can assure you that much is being done and hopefully we will see results soon.”
Then the hounds gave tongue and the conversation stopped short. Everyone looked away into the covert, but apart from the clear high-pitched noise there was nothing to be discovered, until suddenly a fox crossed the road a short distance from where they were standing. At once it was all excitement amongst riders and horses. Some of the men were shouting to the huntsman advising him where the fox had crossed.
James Carey jumped into the covert to help the whipper-in to bring the hounds out onto the road and on the line, but the huntsman shouted back angrily to leave the hounds alone and let them find it for themselves. And indeed, judging by the sound of the hounds they did not need any help. Presently, the leading hound came over the bank, exactly on the line, and crossed the road to disappear into the field on the other side, followed by others, in twos and threes.
James Carey was immediately away over the bank in close pursuit of the huntsman and the Master on the trial of the hounds, no longer caring anymore about his friend Captain Young nor about anyone else. Julia was frightened by the excitement and by the other horses pushing and shoving around her in their eagerness to get out of the crowd and away. Henry quickly leant over and grabbed her off-rein, keeping both horses under control until the last rider had disappeared into the field. Only then did he encourage her to jump the bank, or rather what was left of it.
When they were in the field they noticed they were not the last to go but that Captain Young came after them. He had also waited, uncertain of the Irish country and the way to get over the bank. It was a pretty large-turn out for a Saturday meet with more than fifty horses following the hounds, so that for the last three riders, it was not so much following hounds as following the heavy hoofprints in the soft ground, galloping through gaps in banks and fences rather than jumping them. But it went fast enough and after a while with the horses settling down to it, Julia regained her confidence and began to enjoy it again.
After some two miles of fast going, they found the field standing at the edge of a wood. The hounds had gone in but the undergrowth was too heavy for horses to pass. They went round the wood, walking the sweating horses, in the hope that the hounds would come out at the other side, but they did not and after a while the Master told the huntsman to pull the hounds out. It took a good half hour before they had them all together again. Meanwhile a light drizzle had started and some followers decided to go home. Henry suggested to Julia to follow suit, but she had enjoyed it so much that she wanted to stay.
The next covert was a long glen with heavy gorse on either side. The light rain had improved the scent and the hounds found almost immediately they went in. The fox seemed to follow the glen at first with the hounds slowly working a way after him. The field could easily keep contact by walking along the ledge where the steep side of the glen turned into a flat field. Then, suddenly the fox came out at the other side. The Master and huntsman and most of the others decided immediately to cross, driving their reluctant horses down the steep slope and through the thick gorse bush.
Henry hesitated, not wishing to risk problems with Julia on such a difficult crossing. However, because he hesitated and stayed at the top, he saw how, after having crossed two fields, the fox doubled back into the glen. The others only found out when they emerged at the other side and saw the hounds disappearing into the glen again. Not only did the fox go back into the glen, he went through it and came out just ahead of where Henry and Julia were standing. It was too good to be true. Henry could not resist and shouted, “Come on Julia, we will follow them and get some clean hunting before the rest catches up. Follow close behind me and jump exactly where I jump.”
Henry had to find his own way across country now. He did it carefully and expertly, slowing down for the jumps and at times even stopping four to five strides out to make sure that the horses would not rush it. He was loving every minute of it. Julia followed, red faced, lips pressed tight and perspiration soon appearing on her forehead. But she managed. Captain Young, who had again also been cautious and had stayed on the right side of the glen, took advantage and followed.
When they had done a good few fields, crossed a road and were going slightly downhill seeing the hounds ahead of them all the time, James Carey overtook them, riding very hard, two fields ahead of the Master and jumping banks from a gallop as if it was a point-to-point race. It was fine horsemanship but to Henry with a lifetime of experience in riding over the Hunt’s country, it was reckless. To Julia and Captain Young it was dazzling and brilliant.
A few fields further they came on a narrow road. James Carey had gone straight on but Henry noticed that, in the distance, the hounds were swerving to the right so he decided to follow the road, riding almost parallel to the hounds until Julia, Young and he came to a gate to the left leading into a very large field. They stopped and watched the hounds breaking over the fence on the far side and running along the top of the field to the other corner.
“Wait,” said Henry, “we will watch them going into the next field and then go along the lane.”
But the hounds did not go further. Some went into the next field but came back again, but most of them disappeared among the cluster of trees in the far corner where they could be heard but not seen.
“The fox has gone to ground in the far corner; let us open the gate and find out.”
They had by now been joined by other riders, who had followed Henry rather than continued cross-country. Captain Young got quickly off his horse and opened the gate. Julia was the first to go through followed by Henry. They waited until Young had remounted and then galloped together to the far corner where they found the hounds milling around a hole in the heavily overgrown bank. James Carey was already there as were some others. The huntsman and the whip had dismounted to see if the fox could be dislodged. When they approached, James Carey, addressing himself to his friend Young, but in such a way that others would be bound to hear it, said:
“Too bad he has gone to ground. It would have been a marvellous hunt. Anyway, it was nice for as long as it lasted. You really have to go fast to keep up with these hounds. I bet you very few would have stayed with them if they had gone on.”
The Master, who had also overheard James's comment, intervened saying:
“That may be so, James,” and addressing Julia in particular. “But I lift my hat to this young lady who stayed with the hounds and that on her first day's hunting. Well done Madame, and may we have you with us for a long time.”
“Well Sir,” said Captain Young now. “I thought that I could ride cross-country. But if you permit me to say so, if I had not been lucky enough to follow Mrs. O'Neill, I would not have been here at all.” The last compliment was a little too obvious but, nevertheless, it made Julia happy and confident.
The excitement had been such that they had not noticed that the light drizzle had turned into a soft rain and that they were getting quite wet. Henry, to change the subject and get Julia away from the flattering said, “I don't know whether you are going to dig him out, Master, but we are going home before we get entirely drenched. Thank you for a good day's sport. Come on Julia.”
Julia obediently followed but before turning she very politely said to the Master, “Thank you very much Sir for a lovely day. I enjoyed it enormously.”
They walked their tired and steaming horses away. They were warm themselves and in a splendid mood.
“Did you really enjoy the day?” asked Henry.
“Very, very much. I enjoyed every bit of it.”
“No regrets about coming out?”
“Oh no, not at all. Although in the beginning I was quite afraid. Perhaps I will always be a little scared. But I do like it. I wish I was as good as you are. Or as James Carey. Did you watch him? He must have no fear at all.”
“Well,” replied Henry. “To have a little fear is a healthy thing. It prevents accidents. Carey will break his neck one day.”
They continued to talk about the events of the day, but gradually, as the rain began to have its effect on them, the conversation slowed down until they rode on in silence. When they finally arrived home they were cold and wet, and thoroughly miserable.
It was late in the evening, after a bath, dry clothes and tea had warmed them up again, that Julia came upstairs to join Henry in his sitting room. Sitting in front of the fire and feeling the satisfaction of a well-spent day, their conversation meandered hither and thither.
“You were very good today.” started Henry approvingly, “If you keep it up now and hunt once a week, you will be able to manage on your own by the end of the season.”
“Oh, do you think so? I would love to be really good. It gives me a great sense of achievement. That Captain friend of James Carey was not doing any better than me. He was very civil though. Do you think he is really doing something about those awful rebels?”
“Don't think about rebels now Julia,” said Henry, trying to distract her.
But the thought had stirred in Julia's mind again and in an agitated voice, she continued:
“I wish he could do something about it. Why must these people spoil what we have left after that dreadful war? Enough people have been killed already and now grandfather as well. Oh Henry, I hate it. Please let it stop.”
Her outburst stirred Henry’s love and tenderness for her. He went over to her couch and sat down beside her on the couch. Their intimacy had grown since the day he had unburdened his soul to her in that windswept field on the day after his father's funeral. It had broken the barriers of their past lives and with it the formality of a relationship as father and daughter-in-law had disappeared. Yet, they had not tried to fathom where their love would lead them. Or perhaps they had, each one in the silence of his own innermost self, but neither of them could prevent that they were magically drawn towards a fire with which they wanted to play.
She quietly nestled herself on his knee, threw her arms around his neck and pressed her body against him. The scent of her hair and the pressure of her breasts brought down whatever resistance he had left and slowly he brought his free hand under her skirt and moved it upwards over her leg. She shivered slightly and pressed her open lips into his neck.
Later, when it was over, all he knew and could say was “I love you” and she simply replied “I love you too.” And after straightening their clothes, they sat side by side by the fire for the rest of the evening, in perfect peace, sheltered by their love from a hostile and cruel world.
But the next morning it looked different. Doubt crept into Henry's mind and Julia avoided his eyes over the breakfast table. It was a Sunday and they went to Church in Midleton, taking Miss Jennings with them as usual and trying to behave, in front of her, as casually as they could.
During the service Henry kept turning it over in his mind. They had given and received from each other what they both had desired so passionately, but was it really love that had driven them together. Or was it only force of circumstances: the loneliness of a young woman and the tragedy of a middle-aged man returning from the war to find his family shattered? Whatever it was, love or force of circumstances, was it right and could it last? The congregation would be shocked if they knew. But would God really disapprove of feelings that were so deep and affections that were so sincere? And if it was wrong, would God not have pity on them and on their broken lives? Julia looked beautiful and defiant next to him in the pew, singing the hymn with a loud clear voice. If she had any doubts she did not show them. So why should he?
After lunch they went out for a walk. Julia took his arm as she used to do, but now she occasionally hugged it, as a sign of the intimacy that existed between them. Henry tried to talk about the small practical things of daily life on the farm, about little John and his progress in life, about yesterday's hunt, but in the end he could not suppress his worried feelings anymore and said, “Oh, Julia, what will become of us?”
“Don't think about it.”' she replied. “Let us be happy for as long as it lasts. I am happy now, happier than I have been for a long time and I don't want to lose the joy of it again.” And after a pause she added thoughtfully. “At least not for the moment.”
“You don't think that what we are doing is wrong?” asked Henry with some anxiety in his voice.
“No,” said Julia quite definitely. “As long as we are both happy it cannot be wrong.”
They walked on in silence, reassured in each other, until Julia, timidly, and in a soft voice said, “But I should not get another child Henry.”
After they came home, they each went to their separate rooms and did not see each other for the rest of the day except for tea. Monday brought the distraction of normal work and the problem seemed to weigh less heavily. But in the evening Julia came unannounced into the library where Henry was reading. She locked the door behind her and nestled herself on Henry's knees. They kissed and laughed.
“I was wondering whether you would come back. I would not have asked you, but now that you are here I am very happy.”
“Why were you wondering?” asked Julia.
“I think because of what you said about another child. It had occurred to me as well and I don't really know what to do about it.”
“Oh, don't worry about that for the present, I think that will be alright. And when it is not I will tell you. No, I did not come yesterday because it was Sunday. It somehow did not seem right on a Sunday. Silly of me really, don't you think?”
And they were happy again together for that evening and for the days that followed. But the rest of the household began to notice their long stays together in the evenings; the way they looked at each other; their increased familiarity, and how each seemed to have found a place in the life of the other. From the house it spread to the farmyard and from there to the neighbours and friends. And each time the story was passed on it was embellished, exaggerated and twisted a little further. Some people simply disbelieved it, some chose to ignore it, but most found a malicious pleasure in telling it to friends and strangers. But no one said anything to Henry or Julia and they remained unaware of the gossip.
8. MURPHY'S PUB
James Carey's first assignment as intelligence officer had been a resounding success. He had named the man who had been recognised by the soldiers as one of the attackers in the Carrigtwohill incident. He now received his second assignment. It was an instruction to watch that man, Michael Leahy, build a file on him and to find out who his friends were.
Carey knew Michael Leahy was a young electrician working for a contractor in Midleton, who was in the business of supplying and installing small generating plants and electric lighting to the big houses in the area. The firm was well known. The file on Michael Leahy was not difficult to compile. He was from Queenstown and had served his apprenticeship in the Naval Dockyard and he had come to Midleton about six months ago to take up his present employment.
In Queenstown he was well known as a supporter of Sinn Fein and a member of the Irish Volunteers. For his membership of the latter organisation and the possession of a rifle he had, in I916 after the Easter Rebellion, been arrested and interned in England. After his release in I918 he had resumed his political activities in support of Sinn Fein. James Carey considered it was more than likely that, when Michael Leahy moved to Midleton, he had joined the local volunteers there. It was indeed possible that he had been sent down as organiser of the Midleton volunteers and that his employment was only a cover up.
One of the first things James Carey did was to visit Leahy’s employer and ask information and pricing for a generator and electric lighting on his farm. Showing much interest in the details of the possible new plant, he finally asked for some houses or farms where similar plant had been installed recently, say in the last six months, so that he could perhaps call on one or two landowners and inform himself about their opinion and experience. It was a very normal thing to ask and the contractor readily gave him names and addresses of his customers. Carey knew a number of persons on the list and went to see them, ostensibly to learn about their electrical installations, but in reality to find out whether they knew anything about Michael Leahy.
The results were somewhat surprising. He was told that Michael Leahy was a hardworking, courteous and competent young man who did not smoke or drink and kept very much to himself. One man said he had engaged him in political conversation because he had heard that he had been interned in I916. And yes, indeed, when spoken to about the subject he did not hide his sympathies for Pearse, Sinn Fein and all that sort of thing, but he seemed to be very sincere about it. But, if the plant ever broke down, he would be glad to have him back to repair it.
It was pretty useless information to Carey. It did not throw any light on political contacts that Michael Leahy might have. Moreover the nature of Leahy's work made it impossible to find out anything by watching his normal movements around the country. If, on his travels through the country, he visited other Volunteers, how could this be detected?
The RIC did provide some information on Michael Leahy's movements in the town of Midleton. They said that he attended meetings twice a week in the clubhouse of the G.A.A. although he was not a player of any game. Carey thought this was significant and that the sport could very well be a disguise for meetings, training and instruction of the Volunteers but Sergeant Musgrave shrugged his shoulders about it, saying:
“Yes, it could be a cover, but talking about politics is not an offence and even if it was, what do you suggest we should do? Surround the hut and arrest thirty lads on suspicion that some of them might have been involved in an ambush. Lovely bit of news that would make in the town. My constables are not very popular as things stand at the moment. Do you want us to lose our goodwill completely? Of course, if my Superiors tell me to do it, I will have to. But I will not do such a thing on my own.”
James Carey did not wish to press the issue further, but neither did he know how to continue his investigation, until a few days later luck was with him. When he was walking through the Main Street in Midleton, after having bought some necessities for the farm, he noticed Michael Leahy entering Murphy's pub.
“Now what would a lad like Michael Leahy do in a pub,” said James Carey to himself. It was a well-known establishment. Carey had been there on many occasions and he decided to follow. His appearance did not create any great surprise and certainly no suspicion. He found his man at the counter about to be served with a lemonade that he had ordered. Carey went to the other side of the counter, was recognised and greeted by the publican and ordered a whiskey and water.
In a voice loud enough for Michael Leahy to hear he asked the publican, “Has Edmund O'Mahony been here at all?”
“Mr. O'Mahony from Ballyspillane you mean?” asked the publican.
“The very man, I was to meet him here at 4 o'clock. It is ten past now.”
“No,” replied the publican, “and now that you mention him, I have not seen him for weeks. I was wondering about him the other day. There is nothing wrong with him I trust.”
While they were talking, Michael Leahy was looking into his glass, until he suddenly put the half empty glass on the counter, looked around him attentively and walked out through the back door. The Publican broke off the conversation with James Carey to serve another customer and when he was busy at the other end of the counter he took away the half empty glass that Michael Leahy had left.
James Carey thought it was strange to take away the drink of a man who only went out to relieve himself. When ten minutes had passed and Michael Leahy had not returned, Carey decided to investigate a little further. He left his unfinished drink on the counter and said in a loud voice to the publican, “Excuse me, I will be back in a second,” and pushed open the door through which Michael Leahy had vanished.
He found himself in a corridor between the kitchen and a storeroom, with a staircase leading to the private side of the house immediately to the right. He went down the corridor into an evil smelling backyard that served as the sanitary facility for the customers. As far as Carey could make out, Michael Leahy could have gone upstairs, or via the backyard to the open field behind the main street. It was puzzling to say the least.
Not sure what to do next, Carey went back to the pub, to finish his drink. Presently, an old acquaintance came in and struck up a conversation with him. A third farmer joined them; rounds of drinks were bought and the intelligence work on behalf of H.M. Services became quite pleasant. So pleasant that James Carey quite forgot the original purpose of his visit, until suddenly Michael Leahy appeared again from the back door, walked straight through the pub and left by the front door. A minute later another young man came through the back door and left the pub in the same way, followed after a while by a third. Carey observed it with growing amazement.
“No,” replied James Carey, “but I suddenly remembered something which I must do. I have to go now.”
When leaving the pub he went up the Main Street straight into the RIC Station where he found Sergeant Musgrave just about to go home.
“Look Sergeant,” he said to Musgrave, “you always have a constable on duty in the Main Street. Would you ever ask them watch out for Michael Leahy and see how often he is entering Murphy's pub and how long he stays there. I will have the same question for two other characters. I know their faces but not their names, but I will find out and tell you. Now, you could not refuse to do that for me, could you?”
“I can have Michael Leahy watched.” replied Musgrave, “We are doing that anyway. But I am not sure how I can watch two faces that you know but I don't.”
“I know, but be a sport and tell them to watch the door of Murphy's pub,” said Carey, leaving a puzzled RIC Sergeant behind.
A few days later Carey went back to the pub himself. Between four and five o'clock there were always farmers who, having done their business in the town, were getting themselves a drink before going home.
“I am thinking of fitting one of those electricity machines,” said Carey in rather general terms. More specifically directing himself to the publican, he continued, “They say that 0'Donovan's is a good firm. And one of my friends tells me you must get a particular electrician on the job. A lad by the name of Leahy. Ever heard of him?”
“Yes,” replied the publican, “that is what they say about Michael Leahy. A very good tradesman.”
“You know him well?” asked Carey.
“I could not say that.” replied the publican cautiously. “He comes here occasionally and drinks a lemonade.”
“He is a pioneer you know. Not much good to a publican,” he added with a laugh.
Carey decided to prod a bit further. “They say he is an active Sinn Feiner.”
But the publican was not going to be drawn into politics and replied, “I don't know about that. I don't ask customers about their politics. I only serve them drinks.”
“Best thing to do in this world,” agreed Carey.
It seemed pointless to press the publican further and he began to realise that it might be much more difficult to get to the bottom of things than he had originally hoped. But then, the next day, he had again an incredible stroke of luck.
The Corporal who had been in charge of the ill-fated cycle patrol found himself in need of a handful of nails and went into Duggan's Hardware Shop. He came home with the nails but also with the feeling that the man behind the counter in Duggan's shop looked like the man who had hit him with the iron bowling ball on the jaw. He mentioned it to his Sergeant, who reported it to Major McWhite. When questioned, the Corporal was not very sure of himself. He would only say that he believed he recognised the man.
During the next meeting with Musgrave and Carey, McWhite mentioned it, casually, almost implying that it would probably prove to be a false lead. But Carey could not believe his good fortune. He did not say anything during the meeting but afterwards went straight to Cork to see Captain Young.
“I think I have it as good as wrapped up,” he said cheerfully to Young. “The local rebel leader in Midleton is a man by the name of Pat Duggan. He is an ex-Army sergeant and lives with his father in the hardware shop in the Main Street next to Murphy's pub. The publican is also one of the leading men. You would not suspect either of them. They keep their opinions very much to themselves. There are regular meetings in Duggan's house. To avoid suspicion they enter and leave through the pub. Michael Leahy and at least two others, whose faces I know, congregate in this way. Most, if not all, were involved in the attack on the patrol. Duggan is probably the man who organised it. Leahy is the political brain. I can continue until I find the names of the others, but my advice would be to act now. Arrest Duggan, Murphy and Leahy and search their houses.”
It was a little more than he could justify, but it was a very good guess, and the risk was well worth taking. If it worked and evidence was found in the searches, his reputation as an Intelligence Officer would be made and he might get back in the Army.
After Young had asked a few more questions, he agreed to seek approval for immediate action as suggested by Carey. That would take a day. Cooperation from the RIC in Cork would also be required, but as Young explained, that was only a formality. Then an order would go to Sergeant Musgrave who would carry out the arrests with assistance from the Army. It was better, said Young, that neither Carey nor he himself would be involved in the arrests.
Two days later, simultaneous raids were carried out on Duggan's hardware shop, Murphy's pub, Michael Leahy's room and on the premises of his employer. The results even surprised Carey. In the house above the hardware shop a German Army issue parabellum was found and a Lee Enfield Rifle of which the number revealed that it was taken during the Carrigtwohill attack. In Michael Leahy's room they found a mass of books, pamphlets and writings amongst which was a diary, with details of the organisation, the strength and the names of the Midleton Battalion of the Irish Republican Army. The pub however did not yield anything of interest.
Duggan and Murphy were arrested, each one behind his own counter, but they missed Michael Leahy. Although the raiding parties waited for several hours, he did not show up either in his room or at the workshop. A young apprentice, when noticing the soldiers, had slipped out and gone to the place where Leahy was carrying out a job to warn him. Michael Leahy was on the run.
It took a full day before Captain Young and James Carey had sifted through all Michael Leahy's papers and drawn up a list of others to be arrested. The news of the raids however had spread through Midleton like wildfire and when the constables and soldiers called to the addresses, all the important rebels had disappeared including Mick Ahern and John Fitzpatrick and the others who had participated in the Carrigtwohill attack.
Most of the arrestees proved to be of little interest, save Duggan and Murphy who were brought to the RIC Barracks in Midleton for questioning by Sergeant Musgrave. Neither Young nor Carey wanted to participate in the questioning, fearing that it would reveal their roles in the arrests, which would make Carey's usefulness in the future doubtful. The evidence against Duggan was overwhelming. There was the rifle of which the number checked out against the records of the Cameron Highlanders, and he was mentioned as Battalion Commander in Michael Leahy's diary.
Musgrave explained it all patiently to Duggan and finally said, “I must now ask you a few questions. How many were in the party that attacked the patrol and what were their names?”
Pat Duggan smiled and replied, “Everyone in the Battalion was.”
“I don't understand that. There are more than fifty names in the documents that we have found and you did not attack with such numbers.”
“No,” explained Duggan, “but the rest had other jobs, such as being on look-out, covering the retreat and what have you.”
“Alright, they were all involved; but who actually carried out the attack.”
“I don't remember; honestly I don't,” replied Duggan with some element of truth. “But even if I did I wouldn’t tell you.”
“Who planned the whole operation?” Musgrave asked next.
“I did,” replied Duggan, with some pride, “and nobody else, I did it on my own initiative. Nobody asked or instructed me.”
“Alright, then tell me where the five remaining rifles are.”
“I don't know,” lied Duggan. “I had to hand them over to someone in Cork City and was allowed to keep only one. That is the one you found.”
“To whom did you hand them over?” asked Musgrave, unperturbed.
“I only know him by the name of Charlie Brown. I don't know his real name and I don't know who he is or where he is.”
“Come on now, Pat,” said the policeman, somewhat annoyed, “Don't tell me fairy tales. If you tell me what you know and cooperate with our inquiries, it will make a big difference to your sentence. If not, they will be very hard on you; you know that as well as I do.”
But all of Musgrave's persuasion was to no avail. Pat Duggan refused to say more, and simply remarked, “I suppose I have not got much chance then.”
“Indeed not,” was Musgrave’s brusque reply, “but tell me why did you do this? I can understand that you have political opinions and want to express them. But why attack soldiers and steal weapons. It is futile because your six rifles are not going to defeat us, let alone the British Army. You will now be put away in prison for years, your organisation here in Midleton is scattered and you are unlikely to make much political impact during the foreseeable future.”
“I am not a politician,” said Duggan ruefully, “and I don't believe in politics. Maybe it is because I am basically an Army man. I was trained to fight and not to argue. I also believe our problems in Ireland will not be solved by further arguing. There has been enough of that before the war. No, I think the time has come to fight.”
“I don't agree with that at all. I think we have a fair chance to obtain control over our own affairs in Ireland without firing a single shot. And I think your activities are spoiling that chance for us. But anyway, there is not much I can do for you now. You will have to stand trial in Court in Cork. They will not be very nice to you. But before you go, answer me one more question. Who killed old Colonel O'Neill?”
“I was not involved in it and the Battalion was not. The whole thing was foolish to begin with and his death was an accident.” Pat Duggan paused, obviously reluctant to say anything more.
“Michael Leahy would not do a thing like that,” suggested Musgrave, in an effort to keep Duggan talking.
“No, indeed he would not, but please don't ask me to be an informer. You have been very decent to me, but please don't ask me more.”
“If you know who killed O'Neill,” resumed Musgrave, “And it was foolish and an accident, like you say, why did you not punish those who were guilty? It would be within your power to do that, would it not?”
“It would and it would not,” replied Duggan hesitantly, “You see, a lot of people in our movement do not believe it is a crime to kill a British Army Officer, even if he is old and retired.”
“That,” said Musgrave with some emphasis, “is now exactly where we differ.”
Duggan did not reply. He sat there quietly, staring at his hands. Musgrave speculating as to what was going on in mind, softly broke the silence.
“If you know who did it and if your conscience tells you that it was a despicable thing to do, why don't you allow me to deal with it.”
But there was no response from Duggan.
The interview with Murphy was disappointing from Musgrave's point of view. He soon established that Murphy was not a 'Volunteer', neither was he a member of Sinn Fein. He was at best a sympathiser, but then at this stage half the population of Ireland were. Murphy's defence was that he did not inquire into the politics of his customers and if they wanted to walk through his kitchen occasionally, that was alright as far as he was concerned. What their meetings in Duggan's house were about was none of his business. He dutifully mentioned the names of those who passed through his kitchen, but this was no news as all; those names were known anyway from Michael Leahy's diary.
Musgrave eventually recommended that Murphy be released because there was no case against him, and he could not supply any useful information either. This was accepted and so, three days later, Murphy was back behind the counter in his pub. Although he denied strenuously to his friends and his customers that he had given any information, there was for ever after a vague accusation against him of being an informer. His business declined and eventually he had to sell out and leave Midleton to set up a new life in England.
Musgrave wrote his report to his superiors in Cork on the case against Pat Duggan, but he did not mention his questions on the death of Col. O'Neill, nor Duggan's reactions to them.
9. THE BARRACKS
Pat Duggan should have been sent to the City gaol to await his trial, but instead he was brought to the military barracks. It was not quite in accordance with the law, but in the opinion of those involved, such a slight deviation from normal procedure was, in the light of the special circumstances, fully justified.
The raid had provided much information on rebel activities in Midleton, but nothing had been uncovered about the contacts between Midleton and the rebel Headquarters in the city. The RIC knew there was some sort of a central organisation in Cork and were anxious to discover more about it. The Army was even more anxious and considered the arrest of Pat Duggan as their victory and wanted an opportunity to get as much as possible out of him.
After spending a day in his new cell, Pat was interrogated in a sparsely furnished office by a sergeant sitting behind a table. Armed soldiers were at either side of Pat. The soldiers had treated him roughly on the way from his cell to the office, but for the rest the questioning was straightforward. Pat refused to give any information which he believed could be harmful to his friends and the whole affair was over in less than half an hour.
Captain Young had read the reports on Musgrave’s interrogation of Duggan, and when the last effort by his own people had not produced any results, he decided to try himself. He had Duggan brought into a special interrogation room with thick walls and a padded door, from which very little sound could escape to the corridors and the rest of the building.
Apart from a table and two chairs, the room was bare. Pat Duggan was brought in again by two soldiers in the same rough manner as he had been brought to the sergeant's office, and was left alone in the room. After about half an hour, Captain Young came in, alone. He sat down at one end of the table and invited Pat Duggan to take the other chair. They had the table between them.
“Why don't you want to talk?” asked Young pleasantly. He asked it more by way of opening the conversation than as a serious question.
Pat Duggan only shrugged his shoulders. “You know that as well as I do,” he replied.
“That is perfectly true,” agreed Young, “Alright, let us not waste time. I will explain the position to you without any niceties,” and while pulling his revolver from his holster and pointing it at Duggan he continued in the same friendly tone of voice:
“We are alone here together in this room. It is a special interrogation room. I can pretend that during interrogation you became frantic and assaulted me. You are a strong, heavy man and I am rather a lightweight. So, in self-defence I had to shoot you. Nobody will question me about it. Quite frankly, nobody would be very interested in such an incident. Now, what I want to know is simple. Firstly, where are the rifles? Secondly, who do you meet at Brigade Staff meetings; where do you meet; what is the total strength of the Brigade; what weapons do they have, and so on. You know all these things. Don't try to tell me that you don't. I want you to give reasonable and intelligent replies to my questions. If you don't, I will shoot you. If you do, you will be brought before the Court and charged with assaulting soldiers and stealing their rifles. We will make sure you get no more than two years and that you serve it in England. With good behaviour you will be out in a year and there will be a boat ticket to Australia and some money, if you would like that, although I think your own people in Midleton will never know what you told me. I am leaving you in this room for about half an hour to think about it. Make up your mind. When I come back it is either the one or the other. Till then.”
Young stood up, left the room, bolting the door behind him. Pat Duggan looked bemused and when he was alone again shrugged his shoulders. This surely was a trick. Of course he would not be shot. A man like Young would not shoot another man in cold blood. Perhaps if he was angry or excited; but not deliberately from across a table and as the result of a logical argument.
Nevertheless, after a while, Pat became a little uneasy. He had no watch and no way to judge when half an hour would have elapsed. He began to listen for approaching footsteps. It was not easy to hear anything outside the room at all, but he believed he could hear, at times, noises.
As time passed, his nervousness increased, but he kept repeating to himself until it became almost like a litany:
“It is a trick. He won't shoot me. I must not talk. If I hold out, nothing will happen to me. I will get a jail sentence, maybe a long one, but it won't be forever. When we achieve our independence I will be free again.”
There was no window in the room. Light came from a single bare electric bulb, the switch of which was outside the room. Apart from the light bulb, the table and the two chairs at the opposite ends of the table, there was nothing in the room but silence. The atmosphere had become stuffy and although there was no heating, Duggan started to sweat. At one stage he dozed off and had a vision of someone with an ugly face trying to break his mouth open with the barrel of a revolver. When he woke up with a fright he had lost all sense of time, not knowing how long he had been asleep. It made him extremely nervous and he needed all his mental power to control himself. He got up from the chair and started to walk round the room. Somehow that calmed him down and he was able to consider his predicament again more rationally. He saw clearly that it was all part of the effort to break his resistance and make him talk.
The discovery that the long period of waiting in isolation was part of the ploy cheered Pat up and gave him back some confidence, so that although he still got a fright when Young finally released the bolts and swung the open the door, he managed a smile saying, “You must have been delayed. I became worried that something might have happened to you.”
But Young cut in immediately and said sternly, “Sit down there in the same chair. This is no time for jokes. What have you decided? Tell me. I don't want to lose more time over it.”
“There is nothing to decide,” replied Duggan, “I know nothing.”
“Oh, don't give me that.” There was more annoyance than anger in Young's voice. “Say that you are stubborn and that you won't talk. That is at least honest.”
Pat Duggan looked down at the table and with a slight shrug of his shoulders said, “Yes, that is it I suppose.”
Young, standing at the other end of the table, looked intently at his victim and said deliberately, “Alright. Look at me. This is not a trick.”
Taking his revolver by the barrel he now spun the drum round slowly so that Duggan could see the cartridge in every chamber. He reversed the weapon, aimed it at Pat Duggan and continued, “This is it then. I meant what I said.”
Pat nodded almost imperceptibly but remained silent. Young cocked the revolver and counted, “One-two”, and after a pause, “this is not a trick. This is real.”
Then he pulled the trigger. There was a bang as if a cannon had been discharged in the room. Duggan thought for a split second that his life had ended but then realised that the bullet had missed him. He looked at Young, incredulous and with his face twisting. It slowly dawned on him that it had been another trick to frighten him and he composed himself.
“See,” said Young with a wry smile, “I will shoot. And there is nobody rushing in here to find out what is wrong. Nobody cares what happens to you. If I emptied my revolver on you, nobody in the whole barracks would even ask what the noise was about. I will wait now for three minutes and then I will shoot again. It is your guess whether it will be a miss or a hit.”
Pat Duggan was struggling to regain his self-control and tried desperately to put all his remaining energy into the simple logic that it was only a ploy; a trick to frighten him. Young would not shoot to kill him. After a while, Young said again quite calmly, “Will you talk?”
When there was no answer forthcoming, he fired again and for the second time he deliberately missed. Pat Duggan had not moved.
“Alright,” said Young. “You are tougher than I thought. I am going out for lunch now. You stay here to think it over. I have more time than you have. Good luck.”
When Young had left and Pat had time again to consider his situation, he became more than ever convinced that he was not going to be shot. It cheered him up immensely and got so carried away by what he considered to be his victory in Young’s game, that any reflection on the misery, pain and suffering that would likely be his lot as a prisoner in the hands of people who are in need of information quite passed him by.
After a while, a civilian came in to bring him some food, a mug of tea and two slices of bread with butter. Pat had been in the room since early morning. The food was welcome, but he was really more in need of relieving himself. But the man declined to take him out saying there was a soldier outside the door and that his orders were to bring him food and nothing else.
The food brought him somehow back to reality and he saw the situation again in its proper perspective. There was a chance, small though it might be, that Young was not bluffing and would shoot him. But, when all was said and done, was it not better to be shot than to be an informer. Therefore even if Young was not bluffing, he still should not talk. A simple conclusion with which he was well pleased.
The mug of tea however also increased the pressure on his bladder. The growing urgency of this call of nature was making him feel less heroic. He considered banging on the door, but that seemed useless. Even if he was heard, the soldier would not take him out. Young would have to change the orders. He began hoping that Captain Young would return soon and allow him out before the next session of the game would begin. If he would only let him out, he felt he would be able to resist indefinitely. But not with this burning feeling down in his belly.
When, in desperation, he had begun to turn his mind to just relieving himself in a corner of the room, Young entered again. Pat immediately asked, almost begging, to be taken out but Young ignored the request and told him harshly to sit down. Duggan obeyed.
“Will you talk now?” asked Young.
“Please let me go to the jacks first,” pleaded Pat.
“If you talk. It will only take you a few minutes to tell me what I want to know and then you can go,” replied Young.
But there was no reaction from Pat Duggan. Young produced his revolver again and tapping it on the table, continued, “You still don't understand. You are only of value to me as a source of information. If you obstinately refuse to talk, you are of no value and as far as I am concerned there is not much point in dragging you before a Court of Law to prove that you broke a Corporal's jaw and stole his rifle, after which we will have the privilege of providing you with board and lodging for five years or whatever. If you don't talk I might as well shoot you here and now. It would in fact be better as far as I am concerned because I would not be constantly reminded that I could not get any information out of you. So…” spinning the revolver, he continued “talk or be shot? What is it?”
Young's precise words, spoken with some anger and with apparent determination, together with the barrel of the revolver pointing at him and the strong pain in his bladder, penetrated Pat's courage. The logic that he had earlier so clearly established for himself bled away and sweat broke out all over him. He felt dizzy and to steady himself he gripped the seat of his chair with both hands and his eyes dropped.
“Look at me, you stupid ass!” shouted Young.
Duggan looked up and into the barrel of the revolver. An uncontrollable fear invaded him; he shivered, his teeth clattered and his water flowed spontaneously out of him, into his trousers and on to the floor. At the same time Young fired his revolver. Pat slumped in his chair, paralysed with fear, but the bullet went again over his head. Young stood up, angrily, went over to Pat Duggan and pushed him sideways against the shoulder. It was not a hard or a vicious blow and it was meant only to bring Pat back to his senses. But Pat Duggan yielded like a half empty sack of potatoes and fell onto the floor.
The lack of response made Young even more angry. He stood over Duggan pointing his revolver at him shouting, “Talk, or I bloody well will blow your brains out.”
Only then did he see and smell the urine. He recoiled from the pathetic sight on the floor, took a step back, put his revolver in the holster and with disgust and fury in his voice said:
“Why the hell are you so stubborn? Look now at what you have done. Oh, blast it,” and with that he left the room quickly.
Five minutes later two soldiers came to bring Pat, who was still sitting on the floor, dazed from terror, wondering why Young had not shot him, back to his cell. One of the soldiers unceremoniously kicked him in the behind and told him to stand up. As Duggan slowly responded to the instruction, they noticed the water. One of them mockingly pinched his nose and the other who had kicked him said, “Sorry dear, I did not bring a clean nappy.”
“There you are now,” continued the soldier holding him by the nose, “you figured you were a hero, jumping unsuspecting people on their back. Look at you now. When it gets a bit hot you wet your pants. Bah, cowards you are, the lot of you.”
Pat, however, was beyond caring. He stumbled through the corridors, pushed on by rifle butts, back to his cell. When the door slammed behind him he fell on his mattress, demoralised, humiliated, broken. He lay there until someone opened the door to bring him his supper. It was not a soldier.
“What is wrong with you,” asked the man, “Are you alright?”
“Yes,” replied Duggan. “I am alright. Leave me alone please, I don't want to eat.”
But the man caught the smell of urine and looking a bit closer he said in an almost fatherly way:
“Oh, I see. Well don't worry. It happens to the best of them. Hang on, I will be back in a minute.”
The man locked the cell door, but, true to his word, he was back, before Pat had even had a chance to develop a feeling of surprise, with a towel and soap and a clean set of clothes.
“Come on now,” he said in the same gentle fatherly voice. “You are still alive and in one piece. Get up. You can't stay there like this. Come with me until we clean you up a bit and put dry clothes on you. Don't be contrary now.”
Eventually, Pat Duggan got up and went with the man. On the way back to his cell, with his morale and his dignity somewhat restored, he finally found some words to say.
“You are not a soldier.”
“No, I only work here. I told the watch that you were in a bad way and they let me take you out. There is a great difference between the one sergeant and the other. This one is not too bad.”
“Thank you anyway. You are a decent man,” said Pat.
“That's alright, son,” replied the man. “Don't worry about it anymore. You are alive and that is the main thing.”
And then suddenly finding his courage back and with complete confidence in the elderly man who had helped him, Duggan burst out:
“I did not talk. I thought he would shoot me but I did not say anything. Not one word.”
“Good for you,” replied the man soothingly but with not much interest in the subject. “Now eat your supper like a good man and go to sleep. We won't talk about it anymore.”
Captain Young was due to meet James Carey later that evening at the Club in Cork. The two bachelors had struck up a friendship. Young really considered the tough Irishman a little below his own social standing but he had hardly any friends in the area and besides it was of some advantage to the new work at HQ in which he was now engaged. James Carey on the other hand, saw Young's friendship as a means to achieve his ambition which was to get back into the Army and leave the farm to a steward.
Walking down from St. Luke's to the City centre, Young was still angry about his failure to make Duggan talk. He kept saying to himself that he should have pressed on. The man had obviously broken down and further pressure might have brought all the answers out. Why had he walked out? Some misguided sense of pity or chivalry? If you wanted to be effective in this game, you could not afford pity. What was pity anyway! To be soft on a rebel so that his accomplices would go free and take pot shots from behind hedges at police and soldiers. Better to have pity for the next good man to be hit by a rebel bullet.
Besides, failing to extract any information from Duggan would not do his own reputation any good. To be posted to Intelligence at his age was a compliment and an opportunity. It should not be spoiled. Yet he knew full well that his threat to shoot Duggan was an idle one. He could never do such a thing in cold blood. But nevertheless, he had to admit that there was an element of logic in the argument.
“I should put the thing out of my mind for the rest of the evening,” he said to himself, “have dinner and play cards.”
“A few drinks might help. I should forget this whole bloody country, although it would not be a bad place if they did not have these blasted rebels. Funny, hardly anyone you meet socially has any sympathy with the rebels; yet no one seems to be able to do much about them. There are some nice people around, a reasonable Club in the city and very good hunting. Next Friday is the Hunt Bail and I might meet new friends.”
When he finally turned into the South Mall his mood had changed and he was quite cheerful in anticipation of a good meal and pleasant company. But the first thing that Carey asked him when they met in the bar was, “How is our friend Duggan? Did you get anything out of him?”
“No, not yet, but we have not tried very hard.”
It was less than the truth but Young did not want to tell Carey what actually happened. In fact he did not want to talk about it at all. But Carey went on, “I would get it out of him without bother. I know how to handle these fellows; learned a thing or two about that in Palestine.”
“You know you can't question him, James,” replied Young, “It is against the rules, so forget about it and tell me how your hunting is getting on.”
Carey however was not to be dissuaded.
“Blast the rules,” he burst out, “If you follow the rules you will never get anywhere.”
Young cut him short and said curtly.
“It can't be done; that's all there is to it. Better tell me how you are getting on in Midleton. Any information on the fellows that got away?”
“I don't think they went very far,” replied Carey. “They are probably hiding out somewhere in the country. If they are anywhere between Midleton and Fermoy I will find them. It may take some time. But I will find them.”
“I will drink to that,” replied Young, hoping that that would be the last word about rebels for the evening, but to his dismay Carey continued.
“By the way, I don't believe a word of Duggan's story that the rifles went to Cork. I think he hid them somewhere in the country and the fellows that got away now have them and what is more, they are going to use them. If we find these fellows we better have some shooting gear with us as well. There is no point in wringing anything about the rifles out of Duggan. What he knows is now out of date. But he must know a lot about what is going on in the city and elsewhere; names, meeting places, organisation, what weapons they have and so on.”
Carey had brought the conversation back on the interrogation of Duggan. Before Young could get a word in he was pleading again:
“Let me try it. I mean it seriously. I am sure I will get it out of him; maybe not everything, but enough. Nobody needs to know I was there. It would be your and my word against his and I don't think that anyone in HQ would care as long as we got information.”
“No,” replied Young firmly. “It cannot be done. I am not only worried about the rules, but also about your continued usefulness. If it leaks out that you work for us, your value is gone. Apart altogether from the question of your personal safety.”
“Phew, I am not afraid of that lot,” said Carey with indignation. “I have my old Webley and the first one who tries will regret it.”
“I know that you can look after yourself,” said Young, “but it cannot be done and that is the end of it. So please don't talk about it anymore.”
Young spoke the last words with determination, even with some anger and James Carey realised he should not push the question further. They were silent for a few minutes until Carey raised the matter foremost on his mind.
“Did you hear anything further about my request to come into active service again. It is what I would really prefer, much more than this game of hide and seek. Is there any chance of it coming off?” Young looked around at other members who had gradually drifted into the bar and lowering his voice – something he should perhaps have done much earlier – he said:
“In a way I have. Well, between you and me and in strict confidence, they are considering a plan to recruit volunteers with fighting experience for service in special units in Ireland. Demobbed NCO's and young commissioned officers; really tough boys that can fight on their own. If they get the right people and give them some freedom of action I think they could be much more effective than the Army or the RIC
If you like I will keep an eye on it and let you know when it gets off the ground.” “That sounds fine, but I am not going back to the ranks, no matter how special the unit. I want to get in on my full rank and pay.”
“You might,” replied Young, still speaking in a low voice, “if you have success in this job and if you keep your copybook clean. You have the advantage of local knowledge, so you could indeed get a command. But it is still in the early stages and I should not have talked about it. For God's sake, keep your mouth shut.”
Young immediately scanned the room, anxiously trying to assess if the conversation might have been overheard. The bar had become quite too crowded for the kind of conversation that they were having. Even Carey realised it and he changed the subject to the forthcoming Hunt Ball.
They had dinner together and afterwards found two other members for a game of whist. They drank two bottles of port between the four of them and when they finished the game, went back to the bar for another whiskey. Their friends left after one drink but Young and Carey stayed until nearly everyone had gone. Young was not normally a heavy drinker and the alcohol that he had consumed in the course of the evening began to have its effect.
Carey was not quite sober either, and suddenly he said, “Let's go to the barracks and I will do a job on Duggan. It is much easier than looking all over the country for a bit of information. Come on.”
Young was a little too far gone to argue or to resist and he followed Carey, somewhat unsteadily on his feet, but the walk uphill to the barracks and the cool night air sobered him up. The prospect of facing Duggan again did not appeal to him at all. He was loathe to be reminded of the sordid details of his previous encounter and he certainly did not wish to speak to Carey about it. When they entered the barracks he regretted having allowed Carey to come with him.
“Come in and have one for the road,” he said casually to Carey.
Sitting together in his office, Young poured two more whiskies and again tried to dissuade Carey from his plan. But what came forth out of his foggy mind was only the ill-concealed contempt that he had for the problems which were facing him.
“What do we care anyway about Duggan? I will be gone from this bloody place within six months. Let the Irish sort out their own problems,” he said.
“Sure,” came the response from Carey, picking up the point quickly, “I am Irish and I will have a word with your man in a minute. You will see how easy it is. Especially in the middle of the night.”
As they drank on, Young's resistance ebbed away. In fact he hardly knew what he was doing and in the end Carey himself called the watch and ordered that Duggan be brought to the interrogation room.
“Come on,” he said to Young, “And I will show you how the Turks handle this sort of problem.”
After having washed and put on dry clothes, Pat Duggan's usual fortitude had somewhat returned. But although he felt a certain satisfaction that he had not given anything away, the memory of the humiliation which he had suffered in front of Captain Young was still too fresh to allow his mind to settle. He could not know that Young had not wished the incident to happen anymore than Duggan himself and he looked upon Young as the sole cause of his collapse. In some way, he even believed that Young had fiendishly planned it all, and this only increased his hate for British officers and his determination not to say anything, no matter what.
Struggling with his confused emotions, he had fallen into an uncomfortable sleep. He did not know how long he had slept when he was roughly woken up again. At first it seemed a continuation of a bad dream in which these Army officers stood over him with guns in their hands kicking his backside and accusing him of soiling the floor of the barracks, but then he realised it was a soldier kicking against his mattress and saying, “Get up, get up. They need you below. Hurry.”
“What's wrong?” he protested, rubbing his eyes. “What's happening? What time is it then?”
“Don't ask questions,” said the soldier, a different man to his previous guard, with a voice that did not allow for any argument. “Put on your clothes and shoes. Hurry up now. We have not got all night.”
Pat obeyed. He was fully awake now and remembered clearly the events of yesterday. Suddenly he realised that it might start all over again.
“Is it another interrogation?” he asked with fear in his voice.
“I don't know,” replied the soldier curtly. “And it is none of my business.”
Pat hastily dressed and stepped out into the corridor where a second soldier was waiting. They walked through the corridors and then suddenly there was a sharp pain in his stomach, when he recognised the door of the interrogation room. He was pushed through the door to face Young and Carey. He immediately recognised Carey. A slight ray of hope went through him. A hope that Carey might somehow be there to help him. Then he became aware of the smell of whiskey that hung around the two and of how unsteady Young was on his feet.
“There we are again,” said Young in a thick voice, “Captain Carey wants to ask you some nice questions. Says he will treat you like a Turk or what; but I say you are a stubborn ass that wets the floor and ought to be shot.”
Pat noticed that Young still had the revolver in his holster and became terrified. If Young would start the same game as the day before, his drunken hand would be so unsteady that he might shoot him by mistake. His eyes focused on Young's hand and on the revolver, but nothing happened. He was so absorbed in it that he only half understood what Carey was saying.
“You know who I am.”
“Yes,” replied Pat, not taking his eyes off Young.
“Look at me when you are talking to me; do you know why I am here?” said Carey raising his voice.
“No.” Pat looked for a moment at Carey, but then his eyes drifted back to Young.
“Look at me,” shouted Carey, “Pay attention. No Sir, if you please. You are speaking to an Officer.”
Any hope that Pat might have had about Carey's presence had by now disappeared but he was still much more afraid of the drunken Young and his revolver than of the roaring Carey. He shrugged his shoulders at Carey and looked back at Young. Carey took the baton that he had brought with him from the table and poked it with considerable force under Pat's ribs. It took Pat completely by surprise. He had not expected it and did not see it coming. He shrieked from pain and surprise, brought both hands to his stomach and bent over. Then Carey hit him a sharp blow on the neck.
“Now will you pay attention to me,” yelled Carey, “I am here to get answers from you. Stand up and listen. Who is in charge of the rebels in Cork? Whom do you report to?”
Pat had recovered somewhat from the pain and from the unexpected assault. He straightened himself up, looked at Carey and still breathing heavily he said slowly and with contempt, “You traitor, is this all your work then? I never trusted you.”
He did not get any further. Carey gave him another dig in the stomach with the stick. It came very fast and Pat could not evade it. The pain made him bend double again and Carey gave him a hard, deliberate blow on the exposed head. Pat staggered under the force of the blow and fell to the ground.
“Get up,” roared Carey. “I will teach you manners before anything else. Get up and stand to attention, you bloody bastard.”
Pat Duggan was dazed and in pain but conscious enough to realise that he was not in immediate danger of being shot by Young. Carey would beat him, but he would not die. It gave him some courage. There was no point in getting up and trying to brave Carey's questions. If he defended himself or fought back he might still be shot. Better to let Carey roar at and beat him.
When Pat Duggan did not get up Carey became really angry. He kicked at his body and hit it with his stick wherever he could, until there was only a whining mass of human misery left on the floor.
“You see,” said Young in his drunken voice. “He does not talk. He lies on the floor and wets his trousers. He is useless. Let's go to bed. I have a headache.”
The civilian who brought him his breakfast next morning found Pat unconscious or asleep in his cell. A soldier had told him that Pat Duggan had been done during the night. On seeing Pat’s state, he quickly fetched a bucket with cold water and a towel and started to bath his bloodied head. The cold water brought Pat back to his senses. He was badly hurt and in pain, but he recognised the man as the same one who had helped him yesterday.
“What have they done to you now,” said the man, not so much as a question but simply to show some sympathy.
“It was James Carey from Barryedmond,” whispered Pat Duggan, “He is a traitor and an informer.”
“Was he the one that beat you up last night?” asked the man.
Pat nodded. It was all he was able to do.
“I will get you some food,” said the man, “and perhaps I can get a doctor to see you.”
10. THE HUNT BALL
There had been quite some debate amongst the members whether the Hunt Ball should be held at all. It was January 1920. The previous month Parliament had passed the new “Government of Ireland Bill”, which in effect divided the country in two and gave the sort of Home Rule to each part that Westminster believed they desired. In the South however, the Municipal and Urban Elections had returned large majorities for the supporters of an independent Republic and not Home Rule as provided for by the new legislation. The City of Cork elected a prominent member of the Sinn Fein party, Thomas McSweeney, as Lord Mayor, and in the countryside the rebels, or volunteers, depending on what view one took, were becoming more audacious every week.
There are many ways of explaining the result of elections, particularly for those who lose them. Thus, one view on the recent results was that the people of southern Ireland had no concept of what their vote implied. Another equally reassuring explanation was that it indicated a wish for change, but not support for violence. The Hunt prided itself on being an association of sportsmen and considered that politics were of no concern to it. A new Home Rule Bill or the unexpected result of an election were not the sort of things for which a Hunt Ball should be cancelled. Some of the more cautious members however pointed out that the argument for cancellation was not a political one but simply a question of common sense. Was it safe to travel to Cork and, particularly, to return home in the middle of the night along lonely country roads? Would it be wise to have a Ball which was bound to be attended by a large number of British Army officers, both serving and retired?
The last argument however soon backfired. When the presence of Army officers became an issue, it also became a matter of honour not to be afraid and to have the Ball as if nothing was the matter. Henry had not expressed any views on the question. In his heart he felt the thing should be cancelled; not so much out of fear but simply because it didn't seem right to have such an ostentatious party when there was so much trouble in the country. His sentiments were of course also influenced by the fact that he had no great interest in Balls or similar social occasions.
Julia however wanted to go. A great change had come over her during the last months. It seemed as if she had come out of the shell of her sorrow and had overcome her embarrassment to meet other people. Ladies did not normally have an opportunity to voice their opinions about such things as the cancellation of a Hunt Ball for political reasons. For Julia, it would in any event have been difficult to form an opinion because on the farm she was still very much removed from social life in Cork or Midleton. It did not prevent her from showing to Henry her strong support for the decision to have the Hunt Ball and she took it for granted that they would go. So they went.
In view of Julia's elaborate ball gown and the probable late hour that they would return, it was decided to drive all the way to Cork in the carriage with Jimmy Keefe as coachman. When they arrived, it was immediately clear that political and safety considerations were not going to effect the attendance at the Hunt Ball. Everyone was there, which meant more than two hundred country and city gentlemen with their ladies, daughters and sons trooping into the Imperial Hotel on the South Mall to participate in one of the major social events of the Cork calendar.
Although it was 1920 and the war had changed a good deal of the Victorian prejudices, seeing a young beautiful widow walk into the Ballroom on the arm of her widowed father-in-law and give him the first dance nevertheless created a small sensation. To most people gossip is more interesting than either politics or an insurrection and this was certainly true for almost everyone attending the Ball. Even if people did not really believe what was whispered about Henry and Julia, it was such a fascinating story that it was passed on and found listeners everywhere.
The couple shared a table with Colonel and Mrs. Sugrue and their nineteen year old daughter. The Colonel lived in Montenotte and had retired after the war at about the same time as Henry. He and his wife had brought their neighbours along, a Cork businessman in turn accompanied by his wife and two daughters. The girls attracted many eligible bachelors, but so did Julia.
Julia in fact knew few people, but neither did many know her personally. But almost everyone knew of her and quite a number of people already had an opinion of her. It consisted, by and large, of a mixture of envy and rectitude. It could be summed up in simple terms by saying that, even if the gossip was not true, the girl should not behave in a way that would give rise to such rumours. Julia didn't notice it, but even if she had it wouldn't have upset her. She was ready to meet some disapproval from the female attendance at the Ball and expected and was not disappointed with the attention from the other half. Some of the these seemed to take the gossip as an invitation to make a pass but most behaved as proper gentlemen, at least so far as Henry and Colonel Sugrue could see.
The most persistent admirer was certainly Capt. Young. His manners however were so correct, and there seemed to be such a genuine absence of ulterior motives in his behaviour, that Henry invited him to sit down at their table and drink a glass with them. He talked to Julia about the place in Oxfordshire where he came from, and how much he longed to go back. In return, Julia spoke about her time as a girl in London. Eventually he asked what day she was normally coming to Cork for her shopping and would it not be nice to have tea together and talk about England.
“I don't particularly like this country or its people,” he said, “and it would be ever so nice to talk to someone who understands.”
He said it simply and openly in the presence of Henry and obviously not aware of the fact that Julia, since the death of her husband, had not ever visited Cork.
Despite Young’s minor faux pas, which Henry and Julia simply ignored, the atmosphere remained pleasant and friendly until towards the end of the Ball a young and slightly intoxicated Cork solicitor asked Julia for a dance and was refused, for the good reason that she was engaged already for that dance. He turned away somewhat peevishly and when turning, bumped by accident into someone else who was equally drunk, whereupon the latter jolly rogue said in a voice that was a little too loud, “Oh, ho-ho, my dear boy. You are a little too young and too inexperienced for that lady.”
Julia heard it and so did Henry. He rose angrily from his chair to challenge the man, but Col. Sugrue pulled him down quickly saying, “Sit down Henry, the man said nothing improper. Don't make a fool of yourself. Besides, he is not a gentleman. Forget it.”
Henry protested, but Sugrue was firm and repeated, “For God's sake sit down. You will only make it worse.”
The Colonel was obviously correct in his judgement. Several guests in the vicinity had noticed the little incident and were watching. It was the way they were watching which shocked Henry and he began to understand what Sugrue meant, but it was only on the way home that the full significance of the incident became clear to him.
It was a long drive back. An open sky had caused the temperature to drop to almost freezing point and it was cold inside the carriage. They sat huddled together under a plaid on the seat facing forward. Julia was saying how much she had enjoyed the evening and making remarks on people she had met. After a while, Henry said gently, “Did you notice how people were looking at us?”
“Yes,” replied Julia, “but there was nothing sinister about that.”
“I think there is. People are talking about us. They would be, even if there were no grounds for it. This Cork society loves gossip.”
Henry didn't want to say more. He believed that Julia had not noticed the incident towards the end of the Ball and he didn't wish to tell her about it. Julia shrugged her shoulders. She didn't have the perceptiveness of the older man and she hadn't noticed what was apparent to him. However, she was wise enough to accept that Henry's remarks might have some truth. At last she said, “I don't know how much people gossip. But even if they do, we can't arrange our lives on the basis of what the neighbours say.”
“Perhaps not,” replied Henry, “but it is equally difficult to ignore it.”
They said no more. The cold outside seemed to have invaded their feelings and made them dumb. Then Julia broke the silence.
“Why don't we get married? That would solve it, wouldn't it?”
Henry kept staring out of the window without seeing anything in particular and did not reply.
Julia, somewhat anxiously, repeated, “Well, wouldn't that solve all the problems?”
Slowly, Henry turned his head to face Julia. Softly and kindly he said, “Believe me, I would very much like to, perhaps it is the thing that I have ever wanted most in my life but…” and he stopped.
“Well,” asked Julia with growing disquiet in her voice, “What's the problem then?”
“Well, you see, some time ago the Rector came to see me. Oh, he came on some lame excuse. The care of father's grave. As if that wasn't properly arranged. He talked about all sorts of other things but what he really came to say to me was that the Church does not allow a marriage between a man and his daughter-in-law. Oh, he did it very nicely. He complained about problems that the Clergy sometimes have. How a colleague of his had a parishioner, a very decent and hardworking businessman, well to do, who was widowed a second time and contemplated a third marriage. He explained in detail to me how unfortunate his choice was. It was the eldest daughter of the second wife out of her previous marriage. The age difference was not significant. Only sixteen years and he was already fifty-seven.”
“It all sounded terribly complicated but the point of it was that the Minister involved had to explain that the marriage was against Church Rules. He complained how little people knew about the details of such rules but they were all printed in the Book of Common Prayer. Afterwards I looked it up and it says loud and clear that a man cannot marry his son's wife.”
Henry hesitated. He looked at Julia again. Her face didn't betray any emotion and he continued:
“I have misled you. I have allowed you to believe that there would be this solution. But there is not. I have seduced you and I feel guilty. Forgive me, please, for I didn't know what I was doing. We shouldn't have gone to the Hunt Ball and I should have told you sooner but I somehow did not have the courage. I put it off from one day to another. Perhaps I hoped that it would go away. That you would decide to stop our relationship and withdraw. If you had done that I would perhaps not have felt so guilty as I do now.”
Julia tenderly put her hand on his arm and in a voice that revealed her love and concern for him, she said, “I didn't know we couldn't marry. But I never felt sure that I wanted to marry you until this evening. And having at last arrived at the decision I must now abandon it again. But don't say that you are guilty or that you have misled me. That isn't true. I wanted you as much as you wanted me and I wanted you without knowing or caring if we would ever marry. So you didn't deceive me. I perhaps deceived you in letting you believe that I would marry.”
She paused for a moment as if reflecting on what she had said and continued, “I don't mean to say that I never wanted to marry you. Just that I was not sure. I didn't believe that it was necessary to decide it right away. Oh, God I am getting caught up in my own arguments. I don't know how to explain it but please don't feel guilty. I love you. I know that loving someone isn't wrong. If the Church says that I cannot marry the man I love, then the Church is wrong. Not me and not you.”
Henry put his head in his hands because he didn't want to show the tears in his eyes. Julia gently stroked his h air. All that Henry could manage to say was, “Julia, what must we do?”
When they got home at last they were tired, sad and cold. In the hall, Henry wanted to say goodnight but Julia said, “No, we must get a warm drink before we go to bed. I will heat some milk and bring it to you in the study.”
When she came in with the tray she sat down close to him on the settee. There was no fire in the room and it was colder even than in the carriage. Suddenly Julia said:
“Let's go away Henry; sell the farm and go to America or South Africa and start a new life. Let's go to a place where nobody knows us and where there is no Church to catch up with us. I don't want to give you up.”
Henry put his arm around her. Her sudden resolve to take flight found an immediate response in his heart and he said enthusiastically, “Yes, let's do that. That would be wonderful. Away from it all. Only the two of us.”
“Come,” said Julia. “It is very cold here. Let's get into bed together.”
“But what about Miss Jennings tomorrow morning,” protested Henry.
“Oh, I'll slip back to my own room without her noticing it.”
Next day was Thursday and in view of the Hunt Ball, the Meet had been postponed until twelve o'clock, an hour later than normal. It was at Carberytown, close to the City, to enable visitors from outside the country to hire horses in Cork and be within easy reach. It had been a cold night and early in the morning the fields were white with frost and there was some ice on the roads. But by eleven o'clock the sun had dealt with most of it and Henry and Julia decided to ride out. The distance was about seven miles along exactly the same road as they had travelled the previous day. They didn't want to tire the horses and as a result arrived a quarter of an hour late. The hounds however had not yet moved off.
A large field of almost one hundred horses had turned out. In addition many others had come out in traps, gigs, carriages and some even in motorcars bringing picnic baskets and bottles of port, brandy and whiskey to fortify themselves and the field against the cold. Julia recognised a great number of faces from yesterday and although she couldn't remember the names, she greeted everyone with a smile and without any sign of shyness. She accepted a stirrup cup from Col. Sugrue, thanked him for his good company the previous evening and asked his daughter, with that slight touch of superiority that hunting people have for the rest of mankind, why she didn't hunt.
It turned out a beautiful day and after the initial delay the hounds soon found a fox and pushed him merrily through the glen in the direction away from the City. The fox emerged after a while from the glen, ran through two or three fields to disappear again in the covert. They followed slowly through the fields above the glen and the other followers, either on foot, in horsedrawn vehicles or motorcars following along the road. The fox came out again and this time turned south into the open country. They followed at a good speed jumping the banks between the fields without great difficulty.
But after having made a wide circle, they found themselves back at the glen. The hounds pushed on through the covert and it went like this until it was half past two and they had passed Pigeon Hill. A good number of the Cork City members and visitors had by that time turned round to head back for the city, and Henry and Julia were at that point only three miles away from home. The horses had worked well and with the Hunt Ball, the late night and the day's hunting, they felt tired. Although the hounds were still running they decided to take the road back to Lisgoold.
As they walked the horses and the excitement of the hunt began to fade away, Henry pondered again about the events of the previous night. After passing Lisgoold he couldn't keep silent any longer.
“I thought about our conversations yesterday ever since our return home, Julia. We can't go on playing hide-and-seek without friends and neighbours and we can't get married here either.”
“Quite,” said Julia with determination in her voice. “We can't get married here so let's go away to a country where we can or where we can live together without being ostracised.”
“Yes, but do you not feel awful about selling the farm and robbing little John of his heritage?”
“Why, he will inherit another farm in another country.”
“I know,” said Henry, “But it would not be the same.”
He bit his lip as soon as he had said it, realising that he had revealed his reluctance to sell the farm and leave the country. But it did not seem to make much impression on Julia because she continued, “Maybe it is not the same. But where ever we go, it is certain that there will be less political trouble than here.”
“That is true,” agreed Henry, “Well, we will think about it. I will find out, first of all, whether the farm is saleable and how much we would get for it. Then we must get information about the country that we want to go to. Not to South Africa or Australia, I should say, but to South America. The Argentine maybe. It will take some time to organise and as long as we are here we must try not to provide food for gossip. We may have been a little too reckless by always being together, as for instance yesterday, and again today.”
“Yes,” said Julia thoughtfully. “That may help; I should perhaps go out alone. Captain Young again asked me this afternoon to meet him sometime in Cork. I might just do that. Go up to do some shopping and drink tea with him. I may go and see other people in Cork and Midleton. I don't think I will have any difficulty in getting invitations or, if I want, to find young men to take me out.”
“Oh please don't do that,” said Henry, pretending to be upset, “You will make me very jealous.”
“Nonsense,” replied Julia cheerfully. “It was your idea. So don't complain now.”
“Alright, but would you not take Miss Jennings with you on the first few occasions.”
“Pooh,” retorted Julia, “Captain Young wants to meet me, not Miss Jennings.”
“Take at least the carriage and Jimmy and don't go on the train. It would be more fitting, apart from being much more convenient with all the parcels that you no doubt will bring back from Cork.”
The prospect of these new plans cheered them up. They pushed their horses into a trot and laughed as if they were riding, eagerly and confidently, into a new future.
Julia waited almost a week before she wrote to Captain Young that she intended to be in Cork next Thursday and would be pleased to meet him in the lounge of the Victoria Hotel, at four-thirty in the afternoon. She did not ask for a reply or for confirmation that he would be there, as it might create the impression that she would not go to Cork if Young was unable to meet her. A reply nevertheless came, delivered by a sergeant in an army vehicle with a chauffeur and two soldiers with rifles at the ready on the back seats. The letter simply said:
Dear Mrs. O'Neill,
Thank you for your kind letter. I shall be very happy to wait for you at the place and the time as indicated in your letter.
Your obedient servant,
Paul Young
Julia accepted the reply without comment, but Henry after reading the letter and considering how it was delivered, became worried about the plan. For one thing he did not like the idea of an armed patrol delivering messages to Donoghmore House, and secondly he realised that Young might very well read more in the invitation than was intended. However he did not tell Julia of his anxiety fearing that she would see it as lack of courage and possibly even jealousy.
But the incident did something else. During the eventful night after the Hunt Ball, Henry had promised to take steps to dispose of the farm. But the visit to the family’s solicitors, Riordan & Partners, in Cork, which would normally be the first step in this process he had postponed from one day to the other. Now he suddenly decided to go.
The meeting was, of course, confidential. Henry asked Arthur Riordan could he put out inquiries without giving the name of the seller or the location of the property. In this way a value might be established without anyone knowing that the estate was for sale. According to the will, made by his wife, the property had passed on to his son James, who, a few weeks before his untimely death in Flanders had signed a document prepared by the solicitors, whereby he in his turn, left the estate to his children, and appointed Henry as trustee.
Riordan did not show much surprise. In fact he said that there were quite a few confidential inquiries from landowners who wanted to leave, and with so many large farms and estates potentially for sale, it might be difficult to get a reasonable price. The meeting ended with Riordan promising to make discreet inquiries with one or two auctioneers and Henry would come back in two weeks time.
When he came home, he told Julia about the discussion and explained carefully and elaborately that the first step should always be to seek the advice of the solicitor. He did not fail to mention the rather pessimistic view that the solicitor had given on the possible value.
“Well,” said Julia, with her usual pragmatism, “what does it matter as long as we get enough to start a new life in South America,” to which Henry could only agree.
They were having tea in the dining room and were talking in low voices afraid that Miss Jennings or any of the servants might overhear them.
“Suppose we do find a buyer,” said Henry, “and we sell; we cannot just buy two tickets on the mail boat to South America. What would people say and what do we do when we arrive in Buenos Aires.”
“What people would say,” replied Julia, “would not matter any longer because we wouldn't be there to hear it.”
The logic was again irrefutable and Henry did at first not know what to reply. But eventually he said, “How do we start in the Argentine?”
Julia thought for a while.
“Suppose you found a buyer and are reasonably certain that you will sell. Don't you think it would be a good idea if I then went back to London with little John. As soon as you have completed the sale, you go to the Argentine. When you have established a foothold there, I come over with the child and we just live there as Mr. and Mrs. O'Neill.”
“Yes, I suppose that would be the best way,” but there was no conviction in Henry's voice. Julia noticed it and said as if to help him with his problems, “I know you hate to leave Ireland but what can we do?”
“Indeed, what else can we do,” repeated Henry.
The next day it was Julia's turn to go to Cork. She had accepted Henry's advice to take Jimmy Keefe and the carriage. She left at about one-thirty p.m. after an early lunch in order to be in Cork not later than three o'clock.
Now that she had finally decided to go shopping in Cork herself, she had made a list of things that she wanted to get. It was so much that she could not possibly do it all in the one and a half hours available to her before her date with Captain Young.
Jimmy Keefe dutifully took all the parcels to the carriage while she walked into the lounge of the Victoria Hotel, about fifteen minutes late as would be expected of her. Young got up immediately when she walked through the door. He was in civilian clothes and she didn't recognise him until he was only a few steps away from her. He guided her courteously to a table and offered to take her coat but she said she preferred to keep it on. She did however take off her hat and placed it on the chair beside her.
“I have not ordered anything yet. I was waiting to hear what you would like.”
“Tea please,” said Julia with a faint smile, “And a few scones. I walked through Cork for almost two hours and I am very glad to sit down for a moment.”
“Was your shopping successful?”
“Yes; although I did not nearly get everything that I needed. Nevertheless, what I bought was almost too much for poor Jimmy to carry.”
“Who is Jimmy?”
“He is the coachman. He brought my parcels to the carriage and is waiting for me outside.”
“Oh,” said Young, with some disappointment in his voice, “You didn't come on the train. I thought you would, and I had arranged provisionally, for a motor vehicle to take you home. It would be more convenient and it would take less time.”
“That is very kind of you,” said Julia. “Another time perhaps. But I don't mind the drive in the carriage. I rather like the leisurely way of travelling by horse and carriage. By the way, I had hardly recognised you in your civilian clothes. You look so different. Do they allow you to wear civilian?”
“Yes, when off duty. It is the same as everywhere else. I don't particularly like to walk about in uniform in this city. You can sometimes see the hostility in people's eyes. I don't know why they dislike us so much. We are only doing our duty, trying to round up these confounded rebels. Not that I particularly like the work. The sooner I can get out of it the better. But we don't want to discuss politics, do we.”
He had spoken the last words with a disarming smile on his handsome face, and he continued, pleasantly, “You come from London. Ah, I would love to be back there. Would you not?”
“Yes,” replied Julia eagerly, “I would. I have not been back since my…“
She stopped, alarmed suddenly that she might betray too much of her feelings. He looked at her intently, hoping that she would continue, but instead she said demurely, “But now this is my country. My son is an Irishman like his father and his grandfather before him.”
It was an effort to correct what she felt was a mistake; but having said it she realised that it was true, if not for herself, at least for her son.
“You don't understand,” she continued. “And I only really half understand myself how the Irish are rooted in their country and in the land they own. I don't think that the English have this to the same extent. I rather admire the Irish for it.”
Young looked puzzled and replied, not quite sure of himself, “I must confess that I don't quite understand the difference that you make between the English and the Irish. Take for instance your father-in-law. He went to school in England I presume.”
Julia nodded, “Yes, he served in the army in the same regiment as his father and his grandfather.”
“Well, the same applies to us. The only difference is that your father-in-law has a farm in Cork whereas our family farm is in Oxfordshire. What really is the difference between us? Of course there might be a difference between the peasants of Cork and Oxfordshire, but not between your father-in-law and my father.”
“That is what I thought when I got married,” said Julia.
“Take this political problem for instance,” continued Young unperturbed. “A problem they say between the Irish and the English. But is that really so? Is it not rather a fight between one sort of Irishman and another? The army is here to keep the peace but I can tell you that what goes on between Irishmen is far worse than what the army would ever dream of doing.”
Then the conversation was interrupted by the waiter bringing the tea. Julia immediately occupied herself pouring it out, glad of the opportunity to close the subject, and before Young could resume, she asked him, “How is your hunting? We haven't seen much of you lately.”
“I know,” he replied, “And I am sorry for it. These enormous banks that you people jump are really amazing. I have never seen anything like it before. It is very different from our country.”
“Oh, it must be,” said Julia trying, to keep the conversation on hunting matters, “but I wouldn't know. In London you don't get much opportunity to hunt.”
“Oh it is very different,” said Young eagerly, “You see my problem is this James Carey who lends me a horse occasionally, I don't want to presume on him. But now I have found an address in Cork where I can hire a horse, and I will do that next time there is a meet convenient to the city.”
“There is a stable in Midleton hiring out hunters.”
“Is there? That is funny. I inquired because it would be more convenient. But I was told that there were no hunters available for hire in Midleton.”
“Try again. It is a stable in the Main Street. My father-in-law knows the man well. Shall I ask him about it?”
“Oh yes, please do and let me know.”
“I will, and thank you for the tea, I must go now. It is a long way back. It was very very nice to meet you,” replied Julia making her goodbyes.
“Will you come again?”
“What do you mean,” said Julia deliberately pretending not to understand him. “Will I come shopping again in Cork? Yes I think so. But I don't know when.”
“Will you let me know next time you are here?” he begged.
“Perhaps I will,” she said with a laugh. “If I need a cup of tea after all my walking.”
On the way back Julia kept wondering about her conversation and how she had, for the first time ever perhaps, tried to explain to a stranger that the O'Neills were Irish. Had she only repeated Henry's point of view, she asked herself? Or were her own thoughts changing? Was she herself perhaps becoming half Irish? But then she shook the though off and said, “Nonsense, I was only trying to keep Young at a distance. We must leave this country and unfortunately we cannot go back to England like Young.”
When she came home she took great pleasure in showing her purchases to Henry and to Miss Jennings. She didn't say much about the conversation with Captain Young. But she did say that he believed he could not hire a hunter in Midleton.
“Could you not have a word with the chap in the Main Street who has hunters for hire?” she asked Henry.
“Perhaps he doesn't like to hire them out to Army officers,” replied Henry.
“But you are an Army officer and he would hire out to you,” said Julia with some surprise.
“That's different. He knows me, and has known me for years.”
“But if you ask him he wouldn't refuse Captain Young,” said Julia.
“Perhaps he wouldn't,” replied Henry and left the room saying that he had to do some work before it was dark.
It left Julia rather puzzled.
11. CONSEQUENCES
Michael Leahy was on a job in a large house a little off the main road to Cork about half a mile outside Midleton, when the company’s apprentice burst in through the door.
“The peelers are looking for you!” he gasped out.
The lad had been so impressed with the urgency of his mission that he had run himself completely out of breath. As a result he was almost incoherent. It gave Michael Leahy the idea that something catastrophic had happened and that his life was in mortal danger. Without waiting for the boy to recover his speech to better explain what exactly had happened, Michael rushed out the house, mounted his bicycle and pushed himself furiously along the open road towards Cork. After a few minutes the thought suddenly struck him that the military equally might, at this very moment, be converging from all directions on Midleton. If so, he was racing straight into their hands.
The fear drove him into a frenzy of pedal work, until he came to a narrow country road on his left, which seemed to offer relative safety from a head-on clash with the British Army. The lane led to a number of farmhouses and eventually stopped at the last of them. Michael soon realised he was in a dead-end. In the state of fear and exhaustion which he had now reached, it did not occur to him to ask for shelter in one of the houses, nor did he dare to return to the main road. Not knowing where to go, he stopped at a gate, opened it quickly, went into the field and sat down at the other side of the bank out of sight.
It was three o'clock in the afternoon of an unusually cold dry winter's day, but Michael did not feel the cold. Only gradually, as he rested and as the edge of his fear was blunted by the apparent tranquillity of his surroundings, did he become aware of the sweat running down his neck into his collar and his underclothes sticking uncomfortably to his wet body. It brought him back to his senses and to a more rational look at the situation.
If the constabulary was looking for him, it was not safe to return to Midleton; that much was clear. But were they only looking for him, or did they want to arrest him because they had found out about the Carrigtwohill ambush? He now regretted bitterly his hasty departure without getting the whole story out of the apprentice. If it was the ambush, they would be looking for the others as well. Then it suddenly dawned on him that, if they were really after him they would also look through his room. And with a sick feeling in his stomach he realised that they would find his diary and papers with the names of the entire Midleton Battalion.
Ever since he had joined the Volunteers in 1915, it had been impressed on him not to keep a diary or write down names. How foolish had he been to disregard that simple rule. What would he do now? He desperately searched his brain to find a way to undo the damage. Going back to his room to collect the papers was out of the question. It amounted to simply giving himself up. Moreover his papers were more than likely by now already in the hands of the Constabulary. Perhaps they were reading them this very moment. What if Pat Duggan found out? Or worse, what if Pat Duggan was arrested and would be confronted with the papers?
The ignominy of having his foolishness discovered now worried him much more than his own safety. And in his agony to be relieved of the responsibility of a disaster he began to reason that it would probably not be as bad as it looked at first sight. It was, in the first place, not a serious crime to belong to the Irish Volunteers and usually no charges were brought against members, simply because they were Volunteers. Secondly, the diary did not identify those volunteers who had participated in the ambush, except that it used such words as Commandant and Officer in describing the events of the ambush. It did of course show that he had participated himself, but that did not worry him much now; indeed, perhaps his diary had not told the police anything that they did not know already. Or, maybe, they had not found the papers at all. Possibly they had not even searched his room.
All these little loopholes, through which his conscience and his pride could, hopefully, escape from the consequences of his carelessness, eventually provided him with the reassurance that there was not really a serious danger to the others and he began to think again about his own situation. He had taken this country lane with no particular plan in mind except to evade a patrol on the main road but he could not stay in this field forever and would have to find a more permanent place to hide.
To go to any of his friends in the country would not be safe. He had recruited them all as Volunteers and their names and addresses were in the book. The alternative was Queenstown. He still knew most of the volunteers there. Some of these would surely be prepared to help him. But to get to Queenstown he would have to go back to the main road, and so, he decided, it would be safer to wait until it was dark.
Queenstown was a place which existed by the grace of the Royal Navy and the plight of the Irish people who, in their thousands, boarded in that port the ships that brought them to the promised land of America across the Ocean. Neither the Navy nor the emigrants had much concern or sympathy for the cause of the Irish Republic. The Irish Volunteers of the town thus lived a more perilous life than most, surrounded as they were by the might of the Navy and the men who worked for them and for the international Shipping Companies. But they existed; even amongst the civilian personnel of the Naval Base.
It was past six o'clock when Michael Leahy finally knocked at the door of William Fitzgerald, his old friend from the Naval Dockyard and second in command of the Queenstown Volunteers. When he explained that he was on the run, he was immediately offered shelter, and, after a rest and a meal, he told his story, mentioning the Carrigtwohill ambush and his role in it but not saying anything about the papers that he had left in his room. His host replied that he had heard about the arrests in Midleton and that it was said that Pat Duggan was one of the victims.
After showing Michael a makeshift bed in the attic, William went out to report his presence to the man in charge of his battalion, and the next morning, a girl was immediately sent with a message to Brigade Headquarters in Cork to say that Michael Leahy had escaped arrest and was hiding in Queenstown and asking instructions what to do. By mid-afternoon, the girl was back with an address in Cork for Michael with the instruction that he had to report there the next day.
So, after a night of sleep and relative safety, Michael mounted his bicycle again to face the perils of the open roads. The fact that these perils were the result of his own imagination rather than of the efforts of the authorities to locate his whereabouts did nothing to allay his fears. At every bend of the road he expected to run into a patrol, be recognised and arrested. Thus, when he arrived at last at his destination he was in a state of near mental collapse. The girl who opened the door showed him into a small upstairs room, where he had to wait for more than an hour before someone came to talk to him. It was, in a way, fortunate.
The idea of being in a house which was used by important members of the Cork City Volunteers, gave him a feeling of safety and even of comfort. He was therefore composed and reasonably alert when Dermot Lehane, Quartermaster of the Cork Brigade came in and introduced himself. Michael explained briefly what had happened. After having listened carefully to Michael's story, Lehane asked him, “Did you have anything in your room or at your place of work that could have been of value to the police?”
“No,” lied Michael. “Only some leaflets and books. But everyone knows my political beliefs, so that should be no news to them.”
“They seem to know every name in the Midleton Battalion. Do you have any idea how they got that?”
“No, I would not know,” repeated Michael blandly.
“The raid was carried out in two stages, you see,” continued Dermot Lehane, looking quite philosophical about it. “First Pat Duggan, yourself and a publican by the name of Murphy were taken. Then the next day they called on almost every house where a volunteer lived. It would seem they had found their names and addresses on the first day.”
A sickly pain secretly began to stir up Michael's stomach. He felt his cheeks go red and his hands began to sweat. But he managed to say, without stammering too much,
“I did not know. I thought only Pat Duggan had been arrested. How many of the others did they get?”
“We don't know yet. It seems that most managed to make their escape after the first raid.”
“It all sounds very bad,” said Michael, trying hard to put on an air of solemn concern. “But it is not a crime to be a member of the Irish Volunteers, is it?”
“It may not be a crime and only an offence; but whatever it is, they are not going to be very nice to any lads they apprehend. But tell me another thing. You had six rifles there. One of them was found in Pat Duggan's house. Where are the others?”
On hearing this question, the flutters and pains that were visiting the lower part of Michael's body mercifully went away. With visible signs of relief he answered, “I don't know exactly. I knew Pat Duggan had one at home. We used it for instruction in Midleton. The others are somewhere in the country near Lisgoold. Pat brought them away after the ambush. He never told me exactly where they are. I think John Fitzpatrick knows. We planned to take out a Column for training before using the rifles in some action but now I don't know if we can find them.”
“Well, I am sure we can locate them somehow,” said Dermot Lehane reassuringly. “But you have had two tiring days. Someone will bring you now to a safe house where you can stay for the next few days. You must remain inside and not show your face on the street until this matter settles down. Here is the address. Go now and make sure not to be caught.”
Never in his life had Michael been more pleased to take his leave. He rushed out of the room, almost forgetting to say goodbye and thank you. Dermot Lehane put it down to extreme nervousness and made a mental note that this was not a desirable quality for a guerrilla fighter. Back out on the street, Michael's relief however remained mixed with a heavy feeling of guilt for the misfortune that he had brought on his colleague.
The lady who answered the doorbell of a house on a terrace in North Cork Michael’s guide had pointed out to him from the top of the street seemed to expect him. She told him to put his bicycle in the shed behind the house and then showed him to an upstairs bedroom. There he found, to his utter amazement, lying on his back in a double bed and reading a novel, his friend John Fitzpatrick.
“Hello,” said John casually. “Welcome to this humble abode.”
Michael was so surprised that, at first, he could not utter a word. But John, with an air of amusement all over him, kept looking at him, so that at last Michael said, “How did you get here?”
“Same way as yourself.”
“Did you know I was coming?”
“I did.”
Michael Leahy sat down on the only chair in the room, scratched his head, more surprised even than when he had entered the room.
“Dermot Lehane did not say anything about you.”
“Why should he?”
“He asked did I know where the rifles were. I said I did not but I thought you did.”
“That's right and I told him.”
“If he knows where they are, why should he ask me?”
“I don't know. Maybe he wanted to check my story.”
“Yes, maybe,” said Michael, but his mind was no longer with the conversation. It had been savagely shaken by the suspicion that Dermot Lehane knew that his foolish, careless papers had betrayed the whole Battalion and that his interview had only been a clever trick to confirm it. He could not possibly talk about it with John. At all cost, the conversation had to be steered away from the subject and his worries hidden from his friend. Trying hard to seem casual, he moved on.
“How did you get here?”
John sat up in the bed, slung his legs on the floor immediately replied in some detail.
“I was told within minutes of it happening that they had arrested Pat and Murphy and that they were looking for you. I was at work but it looked a lot safer to disappear temporarily. But after having walked out of the place I became sort of curious you know, and said to myself, I must just have a look at what's going on in the Main Street. I saw a few soldiers in front of Duggan's shop but there was nothing unusual around our house. So I took a chance, walked up past the soldiers, went into the house, picked up my revolver and a change of clothes, took my bicycle and rode out of the town. Just as easy and as quiet as I am telling you now.”
“'I better see Mick Ahern', I said to myself,” he continued, “Mick had not heard anything at all about the commotion and he was keen to have a look at it as well. So, back we went. We hid ourselves in the shed at the back of Cuddigan's shop. But all the soldiers had gone. The two of us then discussed the position. We said we would warn everyone in the Battalion, but mostly the ones living outside the town as it might take time before they heard about it all. We figured the news would spread in the town like wildfire and everyone there would be smart enough to take precautions. Cuddigan's daughter agreed to bring messages to a few of the lads in the country and ask them to pass it on. Then we left the town and cycled to the farm where the rifles were stored. We had a fear that the peelers might be there as well, so we walked the last bit, coming at the farm through the fields from the other side. But it was as quiet as the pub on Good Friday. So in we went, explained the situation and to be double sure, we took the rifles and brought them to another place. There we spent the night, and the next morning I went to Cork to report. Mick is still at the farm with the rifles.”
“Did you hear if any of the others were arrested?” asked Michael cautiously.
“I don't know. I only know what they told me in Midleton.”
“How did you know where to go in Cork?”
“Pat Duggan told me, just in case something might happen to him, just like he told me where the rifles were.”
“What I wonder about,” said Michael, again very carefully. “Is how did they get the names and addresses of everyone in the Battalion.”
“Did they?” said John Fitzpatrick with surprise.
The reply confused Michael Leahy and he got again this dreadful feeling that he was suspected and that now also his friend John was trying to trap him into a confession, but John continued. “What I am wondering about is how they got the tip-off on Pat and yourself in the first place. Somebody must have talked. You were lucky to get away. Pat will have a rough time in prison. I would not like to be in his place right now. But tell me your story.”
It sounded like a genuine concern to Michael and he inclined to the view that John, at least, had no suspicions.
The next few weeks were very boring altogether for John Fitzpatrick and Michael Leahy. They had been told not to go out during the daytime and only after sunset could they take a walk in the neighbourhood. Dermot Lehane called at the house twice, mainly to impress on them to lie low until the full extent of the damage to the organisation in Midleton had been assessed. Dermot came always unannounced and each time he appeared, Michael Leahy got a shock. It was caused by the fear that they had discovered at last that his papers were with the police. He was not very good at hiding his fear. It was so bad that John Fitzpatrick asked him after the first of Dermot’s visits if there was any specific reason why the visit had upset him so much.
During his second visit, Dermot Lehane asked if they knew a Captain Carey from Barryedmond. Both Michael and John said they did.
“He is your man,” said Dermot. “He is not only an informer but he works actively for the British. Himself and another fellow beat up Pat Duggan in prison. Pat is in a bad way. God knows what they got out of him. Anyway, you two go back to the country tomorrow to O'Connell's farm where you will find a few others as well as your rifles. You, John will take command. Get everyone fit and on his toes. We intend to use these weapons; but be careful. Don't expose yourself. Wait until you hear from me what to do.”
When he was gone a suspicion worse than all the previous ones invaded Michael's brain. Pat Duggan, the man he admired and in whom he saw the perfect example of courage and leadership was now, due to the mistakes that he, Michael Leahy had made, under suspicion of having betrayed his friends. He promised himself, there and then, to tell Dermot Lehane everything the next time he met him. But he never did, so setting the problem up to be a growing burden on his conscience which he would have to carry with him for a long time to come.
The O'Connell farm was about a mile west of Clonmult at the end of a long, winding, waterlogged boreen. Mick Ahern was there with three others when John Fitzpatrick and Michael Leahy caught up with them. They were billeted in a stable some distance away from the house. The farm stood on a ridge and from the door in the hayloft of the stable, you could in the distance see where the boreen came out onto the main road. It was an ideal place for a hideout. If any military or police patrol came up the boreen, it could be spotted immediately and there was enough time to beat the retreat to a wooded glen a few hundred yards down the other side of the ridge.
After they had met the others and installed themselves in the stable, the first thing they talked about was Captain Carey and how to deal with him. The man had to be killed. John Fitzpatrick however, while agreeing with the sentiment, maintained that his instructions were to train, lie low and be careful. Therefore they could not venture near Midleton to deal with Captain Carey. Eventually, by way of compromise, a plan was drawn which could be carried out as soon as the restriction on their movement was lifted.
Mick Ahern said he knew someone in Walshtown who would certainly help in finding out Carey's movements, details of his farm, his habits, etcetera, so that they would have sound information on which to act when the time came. In the meantime, they would train hard, and so for the next two weeks, they ran laps of the field, burdened with rifle and pack, climbed banks and fences and crossed ditches and water courses. They worked themselves through the undergrowth of the wooded glen from one side to the other and in the evening when it was dark, they made long marches trying to follow a straight line cross-country, aided by an ordnance survey map, which they all learned to read. They did drill and bayonet fighting, and tactical work whereby one party would advance on a post held by another. Unfortunately there was never an opportunity for actual target practice with the rifles. The noise would carry too far thus giving their camp away. Moreover the ammunition could not be spared.
After a few days they were joined by three other fugitives from Midleton and the party now consisted of nine with five rifles, three shotguns and two revolvers. John Fitzpatrick had learned a little about military matters from Pat Duggan and he had brought some army manuals on training. A senior officer would come occasionally from Cork to help for a day and so fitness and morale increased quickly from the state of despondency that had prevailed after the raid in Midleton. But Michael Leahy found it difficult to forget his blunder and the suspicion that now lay unjustly on Pat Duggan.
At last, an order came from Cork to move. The column was to march north, cross the River Bride without making use of the bridge and proceed to a farmhouse on the Blackwater east of Ballyduff, where they would receive further instructions. To reduce the chances of detection the march would have to be made during the night.
They discussed the move at length amongst themselves. One of the O'Connell sons who knew the area well, agreed to act as a guide. On balance they believed they would be better off using bicycles and going along the road, thus making greater speed. They had only six bicycles and some had to stand on the step behind the rider. An unarmed guide was to ride about two-hundred-and-fifty yards ahead to raise the alarm if anything hostile was discovered along the road. O'Connell Snr would further arrange that if they left the bicycles where they crossed the Bride, they would be collected and brought back to the farm.
John Fitzpatrick decided that the day before the night march was to be a day of rest. They had a late breakfast and were in excellent spirits until they noted that Michael Leahy was missing. When nobody remembered seeing him that morning they went out to check. His rifle and his bicycle were gone. When he had not returned by lunch time, John Fitzpatrick became worried, and so, in the afternoon, he called a meeting. There was no question of aborting the mission; however, the mysterious disappearance of Michael Leahy had increased the risk substantially. Had he simply opted out by going away? Or was there a more sinister reason for his disappearance, and as the afternoon wore on, and there was no sign of him, their anxieties increased.
All the while John Fitzpatrick was training his men at the isolated farm near Clonmult, Captain James Carey, having failed to extract any useful information out of Pat Duggan, had been trying to continue his investigation. He believed, rightly, that the captured rifles had been hidden somewhere in the Midleton area and that Duggan's story that they had been handed over to a stranger in Cork was not true. The fact that all officers of the Midleton Volunteers had gone into hiding and that meetings were no longer held, made Carey's task much more difficult. He reasoned however that there would be enough people who knew a few of the secrets and that those who did were likely to talk about it to their friends in the local pubs, and that keeping an ear to the ground and asking innocent questions here and there might give a clue about the identity or the whereabouts of one of the suspects. As much in hope as in anticipation, Carey had also taken the precaution of always carrying his revolver with him, hidden under his jacket or his trenchcoat.
Although Carey's belief that people find it difficult to keep secrets was correct, he had overlooked that that truth applied to the interrogation of Pat Duggan as well. The civilian who had found Duggan the next morning in his cell had not been a rebel. He was not even a sympathiser of Sinn Fein, but he had simply been shocked by the treatment meted out to Duggan and he spoke about it when having a pint in his local the following evening. A week later, one of his friends came to his front door with a stranger whom he introduced as a good friend of Pat Duggan. The man realised that the stranger was someone from the rebel organisation to which Pat Duggan also belonged and that in meeting and talking to him, he was going against established rules and could very well lose his job. Nevertheless, he told the stranger all he knew. It gave him the feeling that he had, in some small way, redressed an injustice done to the prisoner.
This oversight by Carey, together with his habit of going into Midleton every Saturday afternoon, almost cost him his life. He usually went to Midleton in a sidecar, like most farmers, but on this particular Saturday, he had taken his bicycle. In late March there is already a good stretch in the evening, and so it was still full daylight as he cycled home. He was about one-hundred-and-fifty yards from a sharp left-hand corner in the road when suddenly a shot rang out. At the same time he heard and felt a bullet flying past at a very close distance.
His reaction was quick and that of a trained soldier. He did not stop or try to find out where the shot was coming from but looked only for cover. Ten yards ahead of him on the right side of the road was a gate with large stone posts. He pushed hard on the pedals of his bicycle, swerved to the side of the road and when almost level with the gate threw himself, bicycle and all, to the right towards the gate. As he fell, there was a second shot. He quickly disengaged himself from the bicycle and crawled, half on his side, against the closed gate in an effort to get as much cover as possible from the solid post. Lying prone in the mud and stones now, a third shot was fired and he heard the bullet whistling down the road.
The attack had been too unexpected and the time too short for any fear to develop and while he was lying in the relative shelter of the gate post, it was anger rather than fear that came over him. “The murdering bastards,” he cursed. “Sniping from a safe position at an unsuspecting man. If I could lay my hands on them I would strangle them.”
He had however too much experience of irregular warfare to allow his feelings to obscure his judgement. The gunman was almost certainly behind the bank where the road made the sharp left-hand turn. It was madness to go out on the road to locate the sniper's position. The only option was to get into the field. Climbing over the gate would expose him again to the sniper as well as betraying his movements. Fortune was with him. The latch on the gate was only a foot over his head. He tried to push it back with his hand but could not. He then took his revolver from the holster under his trench coat and, with his side on the ground and half against the gate, started to hammer with the butt of the revolver against the latch. His movements apparently were noticed because another shot rang out. The bullet grazed his coat and took a chip off the other gatepost. At the same time the latch gave way and the gate swung open into the field. He inched away from the road and crept forward on elbows and toes.
The high overgrown bank between the road and the field now gave excellent cover. It allowed him to get up and sit on his haunches. There was nothing to be seen in the field. The tall grass and briars on top of the bank allowed him to stand up almost fully without being seen, but he didn't take that chance and remained crouched down. Fifty yards ahead was another similar bank at right angles to the road. It was no quite as high but there was a shallow ditch in front of it. He couldn't see in the field at the other side, but the gunmen were obviously somewhere in that other field. He decided to make a dash to the corner keeping his body as low as possible and holding the revolver in his right hand.
There was cattle in the field. The animals were nervous as a result of the shots and he was afraid that his run to the corner would disturb them more and that their movements might betray him. But he took that risk and went forward as fast as he could. Having arrived at the corner he slid into the ditch. He still could not look into the other field. The bank was, from his position in the ditch, far too high. But a little further down there was a gap in the bank stopped with branches. He cautiously moved forward through the ditch trying not to make any noise. When he finally had reached the gap and was able to look through the branches into the other field his heart stopped. On the other side, running towards him were two young men. The one in front was carrying a rifle and he was less that twenty-five yards away. Carey fired his revolver twice.
They were wild shots, an instinctive reaction to the sudden danger that was approaching and they missed. They had however an electrifying effect on his two opponents. The first one turned and ran. The second one stopped, hesitated and seemed to ask the other what to do. But eventually, he also turned around and ran. It all happened very quickly but it left Carey enough time to regain full control over himself. Seeing the enemy run, he took the revolver in both hands and aimed carefully at the back of the last man. The distance was now fifty yards, not a very difficult shot on a target range but difficult enough under the excitement of the moment. The man fell almost simultaneously with the shot. He got up again, staggered a few paces only to fall down again. Carey then took aim at the man carrying the rifle, but the distance had become too great and the shot missed.
It was a very large field going all the way around the bend in the road and back again to the fence at the other side to which the second assailant was running. It was clear that the two men had been in this field behind the bank at a place where they could overlook the length of the road as it was approaching the bend. After Carey had disappeared behind the gate posts, the two men obviously had left their position and gone inside the field along the road towards him. They had met him at the gap and in this meeting Carey had been the lucky one.
He now waited for as much as three minutes on his side of the gap and then considered that even if the rifleman had stopped behind the fence at the other side of the field, the distance would be too great for an accurate shot. He pulled away the branches blocking the gap and climbed quickly through, throwing himself immediately flat down at the other side. Nothing happened. He crawled forward, but still nothing happened. At last he got up and walked towards the shot man who was lying in the grass face down, groaning, with one arm under his forehead and the other stretched along his body. The shot had hit him low in the side of the back, almost in the buttock, and the seat of his trousers was wet with blood.
The man tried to lift and turn his head so as to see who was approaching, but before he could complete the movement, Carey blew a shot through the back of his skull into the brain. The head fell sharply back and blood gushed out from the wound. Carey waited a few unnecessary seconds to be sure that the shot had been effective and then bent over the body, took the free arm and while pushing the lower body with his foot, turned the man over on his back. The bullet had left again through the forehead making a very large wound. But the face was still intact. It was the face of a very young man, almost a child. There was no weapon to be seen anywhere. He felt the pockets in the trousers and the jacket but there was nothing, no ammunition, not even a pocket knife.
The question was, what to do next. Carey's house was a mile away but that was the direction which the fleeing gunman had taken. It also meant continuing on the narrow twisting road. The gunman might stop and take another potshot at him. Besides, the incident had to be reported. It was better to go back to Midleton. It would be fast going downhill and the main road was flat. He could be there in twenty minutes.
When he got back to Midleton he did not go to the RIC Station as would have been normal, but went straight to the military barracks where he announced himself as Captain Carey, attached to Headquarters in Cork, wishing to send an urgent message to Captain Young of Intelligence and requiring assistance to investigate the scene of an ambush from which he had just narrowly escaped.
It took some time before Major McWhite who knew of Carey's assignment could be found, and by that time, a message came back over the wire from Cork with instructions to give Carey the assistance he required. Thus, arriving back at the scene of the ambush an hour later, in a motorcar with a sergeant and four men, there had been time for his assailant to make his getaway, but the body of the young man Carey had shot was gone too.
Carey knew that there were a few cottages around the corner of the road and despite the fading light, commanded his posse to investigate there. Walking through the field and parallel to the road, they rounded the corner and came to the place from where the gunman must have fired his shots. He left two men there to look carefully for any trace that the gunman might have left. With the Sergeant and the two other men, he climbed over the bank back onto the road and walked towards the cottages, instructing them to keep to the sides of the road, prepared to dive for shelter if there was any sign of hostility.
As they approached the cottages, an elderly man came out and walked towards them. Carey had seen the man before and believed he was one of McCarthy's farmhands. Nevertheless he kept his revolver at the ready.
“If you are looking for the body,” said the man politely, “we have it inside,” and he beckoned with his arm towards the door of the first cottage.
They walked together towards the door. When they were nearly there the old man added, “I sent the daughter to the house to ask for a pony and trap to fetch the priest from Lisgoold. He will be here any minute now, God willing.”
Carey nodded and in a casual manner said, “There was more than one man; did you see the others?”
The old man shook his head. “We were inside when we heard the shots. We were afraid to go out. Only after it had been quiet a long time I went to the neighbours and we looked round together. We found a body in the field and brought it in.”
The old man had stopped in front of the door while he was talking, Carey pushed him gently aside and went in leaving the Sergeant and the soldiers outside. The body of the young man was laid out on a white sheet on the floor of the little room. His hands were folded over the chest with a cross between the dead fingers. There was a pillow under the head and a white cloth had been laid over the forehead. The pillow and the cloth were soaked in blood. Laid out in the little room, he seemed to be taller and stronger than in the field, but he still looked terribly young and innocent.
“Old enough to be a rebel,” Carey said in a half loud voice, more to himself than to the others. Then, turning to the man who had also entered the room he asked, “Do you know who it is?”
The old man looked straight at the young face, and said without turning his head, “No Sir, I don't know him,” and after a little while he added softly. “And I don't know who shot him either.”
“We will have to take him to the barracks for identification.” said Carey.
The old man nodded and replied, “The priest will be here any minute now.”
It could be anytime within the next hour. But Carey didn't want the priest to come in vain and therefore he said to the old man, “I will have to question the neighbours. You stay here and wait for the priest.”
He left the cottage and told the Sergeant who was still waiting outside not to let anyone in or out of the house except the priest, and then walked on to ask his questions.
He knew the inhabitants of the other two little houses by face but not by name. They however knew him alright. The gunman had been waiting for him behind the bank. They could have been there for only ten minutes, but more likely it would have been an hour or more. A person in the back garden of any of the cottages would almost certainly have seen them. But when asked, nobody had looked in that direction. In fact, they had all been indoors at the time of the shooting and had not dared to leave their houses until well after the shots had stopped.
When Carey returned, angrily, back to the first cottage, the priest had arrived and was about to begin the prayers. He took off his cap and reluctantly folded his hands in front of the belt of his trench coat holding the cap at the same time. The old man and his daughter went down on their knees and for the next few minutes the small room was full of the silence of prayers in the memory of an unknown dead young man. When it was finished, Carey asked the priest did he know the man.
“I have seen him before,” replied the priest curtly.
“I mean, do you know his name and where he lives?” asked Carey with more emphasis.
But the priest did not seem to hear. Carey, showing signs of impatience, repeated the question but again there was no reply.
“I suppose nobody knew that he was a rebel either”
The priest now turned his head, looked at Carey as if he was tired and annoyed by the angry outburst and said, “Captain, the only thing that concerns me is that he was a member of the Roman Catholic Church.”
Carey shrugged his shoulders and went out to tell the soldiers to put the body in the motorcar. On the way back to Midleton, they showed him two spent shells that they had found behind the bank from where the shots had been fired. It was standard army ammunition for a Lee Enfield rifle. It was almost certainly fired from one of the rifles taken in the Carrigtwohill ambush.
Back in the cottage, with James Carey gone, the priest turned to the old man and asked, “Your daughter believes the other boy was Michael Leahy. Is that so?”
“Yes father. He had been hiding for more than an hour behind the hedge and Sean here was with him all the time. I did not know they were after Captain Carey, otherwise I might have told them not to. Only why did the Captain have to shoot poor Sean after the boy was harmless. It was an evil thing to do.”
“Yes, I know,” said the priest. “It is always an evil thing to kill, Brian; it is always evil. But I must be on my way. It is almost dark and I have to tell Sean's father.”
But when he was at the door he turned back again, as if he had forgotten something.
“I knew that Michael Leahy was one of these wild ones. But tell me, Brian, how did a young lad like Sean Stack get mixed up in this?”
But Brian did not know the answer to that question either.
There was great commotion when finally at six o'clock, Michael Leahy cycled back into camp.
“Where the hell have you been?” roared John Fitzpatrick angrily at him.
Michael shrugged his shoulders and said, “I had a private affair to settle.”
“What do you mean? In this business you can't afford private affairs and you can't just go away to settle them without telling anyone.”
“Alright,” said Michael wearily while he was untying his wrapped-up rifle from the crossbar of his bike.
“I went away to deal with that fellow Carey.”
John Fitzpatrick was taken aback by this unexpected statement. His anger seemed to subside.
“And did you?” asked someone else quickly.
Michael Leahy did not immediately reply. He took his rifle, went into the stable and sat down on the bench near the table. He put his head into his hands and finally with a sullen, sad voice said, “No. And my guide was shot.”
“Who was your guide. Is he dead? Where is he now?” Several questions came simultaneously across the table.
“It was a lad from Walshtown who had helped me finding out more about Carey. I am not sure whether he is dead. I think so. Mick here knows the lad. His name is Sean Stack.”
“Jesus,” was all that Mick Ahern could say.
Michael continued, “I thought I had hit Carey but I couldn't see exactly where he had fallen. So the two of us went through the field behind the bank to get nearer to the place where he was on the road. Then suddenly when we were about to cross a fence we came face to face with him and he was firing a revolver. We ran and Sean got hit.”
“Why did you not fire back?”
Michael bowed his head and looking at the table he said softly, “I had spent all my bullets. I had taken only one clip.”
“Why do you think he is dead?” asked John Fitzpatrick.
“It was a big field and when I got to the other side across the fence, I stopped to look. Sean was still on the ground. Carey stood over him and suddenly fired another shot. It was dreadful. It was cold-blooded murder. There was nothing I could do. I came back as quickly as I could.”
“Are you sure nobody followed you?” asked John Fitzpatrick.
Michael nodded his head. “Yes, I got away alright. I suppose the whole place is now swarming with soldiers.”
“Come on,” said John Fitzpatrick. “We are moving out at once before they get here.”
Within fifteen minutes they were cycling along the dark country roads. They kept going at a good pace until they were near Ballynoe. Their orders had been to cross the Bride at about half past eleven that night, but if they continued as they were going they would get there during daylight hours. John therefore decided to take a rest and hide the men and the bicycles among a group of trees and gorse bushes at the side of the road.
At eleven o'clock they set off again, crossed the Bride according to plan. The young O'Connells stayed behind and on the other side, the column got a new guide who took them on the six mile march cross-country to the Blackwater. It was a dark night and the going in the wet fields was difficult. Michael, who had had a tiring and emotional day, found it difficult to keep up and he fell twice. John Fitzpatrick noticed it but he did not relax the pace, until, when they had covered about two thirds of the distance, he relented to let Michael catch up. They reached their destination a quarter of an hour late.
They had presumed that they would spend the rest of the night in the farm where they had now arrived. When the officer who was there to meet them said that they would cross the Blackwater at once in a punt that was waiting for them, John realised that there had not really been any reason to believe that the farm would be the end of their journey. He asked the officer whether they would go much further once across the river.
“Another eight miles,” said the stranger, “and you must get there before daylight.”
“I have one man who won't be able to make that. Can I leave him behind here?” asked John.
“That's up to you,” said the stranger. “If you feel you must leave him behind, I am sure the people here will look after him.”
Michael protested vehemently but John was firm and twenty minutes later the column had crossed the Blackwater, leaving Michael Leahy behind.
12. INTERROGATIONS
The next morning, Sean Stack's father put on his Sunday suit, slipped his rosary into his pocket and walked all the way from Walshtown to Midleton to ask for the body of his son. They were poor people, the Stacks, by any standard. They were farmers’ labourers but there was only casual work on the land and that was restricted to the Spring and the Summer. During the war, it had been good enough. But with all the young men returned from the army and the farmers complaining about low prices, work was hard to get. Life for old Stack had been a struggle to survive. Work was survival and it came from the large farmers, whether they were Protestant or Catholic.
Stack had never had the time or the inclination to think about Irish freedom, and if he had had, his only question would have been, whether freedom meant more work for Gerard Stack and his three sons. So, when he came to the guardhouse of the military barracks in Midleton, he simply asked could he have the body of his son.
“Ah,” said the Sergeant on duty. “You are the father of the little bastard that tried to murder Captain Carey yesterday. Hold on now mate. Don't leave this room until I give you permission. There will be questions to answer for you.” and with that the Sergeant went away leaving Stack under the guard of a soldier.
Captain Carey had stayed the night in the barracks. After HQ in Cork had explained over the telegraph that Carey was performing valuable services for intelligence and should be treated according to his rank, he had been given full facilities in the barracks. His first job in the morning had been to write an official report on the accident. When he came to the last part, he hesitated.
Eventually he wrote, “When I approached the fallen man, he made a sudden movement which I presumed to be an effort to aim a weapon at me. I thereupon fired another shot which hit the man in the head. On examination I could however not find any arms on or near the body.”
A summary of the report had been telegraphed to headquarters in Cork. The doctor who examined the body had, after consulting Carey, written a certificate which stated that death was due to a revolver shot from close range into the head of the deceased. It seemed, even to Carey, a superfluous statement.
When old Stack came in, nobody in the barracks had as yet found out the identity of the victim. Nobody was terribly interested either, except Carey and of course Intelligence in Cork who had come back on the telegraph to say an Intelligence Officer was coming.
Apprised by the Sergeant of old Stack’s progress, Carey asked him to send him up to the office. Stack knew Carey. It was his business to know every big farmer and landowner in the area. His life depended on the jobs they sometimes had. He also knew that Carey had shot his son. The priest had told him. Carey on the other hand didn't know Stack; that is to say, he could not remember either the face or the name.
When Stack came through the door, Carey, without any preliminaries, fired an immediate question at him. “How did you know your son was killed and that his body was here in the barracks?”
“The priest told me,” said Stack simply.
Carey had been sitting behind the desk when Stack came in. Stack had stopped near the door as if afraid to come any closer. Now Carey got up from behind the desk, moved nearer and, standing very close to Stack, asked in a commanding voice, “Where do you live?”
“In Walshtown, Sir.”
“When did the priest tell you that your son was killed?”
“Last night, Sir.”
“Yes of course, but at what time exactly?”
“I don't know, Sir, but it was just after dark. We were wondering about the lad. He never stays out late.”
The priest must have gone straight from the cottage to the boy's family, Carey thought. And to me he was pretending all the time that he didn't know who it was.
“Why did your son want to shoot me?” he asked angrily.
“I don't know, Sir. I don't believe he wanted to shoot you.”
“What else were they doing then? Shooting pigeons?”
“I don't know that he was Sir. He was a good son. Never went out very much. He had got a job only this Spring at Ballinaclasha. They were pleased with him. He is strong like, and willing to work.”
“Was he at his job yesterday?”
“Yes Sir. He went out in the morning like always when he goes to work.”
“Who was the other man that was with him? Don't tell me you don't know.”
“You mean the other lad, Sir, who had the gun? I don't know.”
“But you knew there was another man with a gun. How do you know that?”
“The priest told me, Sir, that there was this other lad.”
“Surely he told you who it was.”
“No Sir. The priest said he didn't know himself. I'm sorry now, Sir, I mean I am sorry that he tried to shoot you. It was not my son. It must have been the other one who did that.”
“How old was your son?”
“Sixteen years next July, Sir.”
Carey's anger had disappeared and he began to feel pity for the old man. It was mingled with a certain amount of embarrassment of standing face to face with the father of the young man he had killed yesterday. In a friendlier voice he asked, “Do you have other children?”
“Yes Sir, two other sons and three daughters.”
“What ages are the other children?”
“Oh, Sir, Sean was the youngest. He was a good boy. Never caused any trouble to anyone.”
“The other two sons, what ages are they?”
“The eldest is twenty-five. He is just married, living near Mogeely. And the other one is twenty.”
“Where is he?” asked Carey suddenly interested again.
“He is at home Sir.”
“Has he any work?”
“Thank God yes, Sir. He is ploughing for Mr. O'Regan.”
“Had your younger son any friends?”
“Oh yes Sir. He talked to all the other boys at the crossroad, you know.”
“Do you know their names?”
“I do, I do, Sir,” and the old man began listing the names of about every young man living anywhere near Walshtown.
“Yes, yes,” said Carey, finally stopping him.
“That's alright now. We will have to keep you in the guardhouse for a little while. Be good. Don't run away. If you do, we will have to get you again.”
“That's alright. Whatever you say, Sir. I mean can I see my son now.”
“I'll find out for you,” said Carey trying, in his own way, to be helpful. “You go back with the soldier to the guardhouse and we will see.”
He opened the door, and asked the soldier who was waiting outside to take Stack back and then return. After the soldier had returned they went together to the other building where the body was laid out on a bed in the sick bay. There he told the medical orderly that he had allowed the old man to see the body of his son and that the soldier would bring him up shortly. When going away he added, casually, as if it was a small matter of detail.
“The man is very upset. I suppose it was not his fault. Give him some lunch and look after him, will you?”
He then went to the messroom for his own lunch. It was the first time since his arrival in the barracks the previous day that he went into the messroom. He knew some of the officers superficially, but they all knew him and when he entered the officers mess the conversation stopped abruptly and everyone looked at him.
“You are very welcome, Captain Carey,” said Major McWhite warmly, “Pleased to see you, particularly pleased to see you sound in wind and limb. I must introduce you and then we must drink to this.” They all trooped around Carey, drinking his health and congratulating him.
“And you got the little brat. Excellent work,” said one.
“Jolly good show. Pity you didn't get the other one,” said another.
“It will teach the buggers a lesson,” said a third.
“It takes a local man to beat the locals.”
The dreadful question, whether it had been right to fire the second shot, a question which, after meeting the boy's father had again began to disturb his mind, evaporated under the praise and warm company of the officers messroom, and the world returned, mercifully, to its familiar pattern, in which there was no room for mistake, doubt, remorse or the stunned, uncomprehending face of an old man.
“Gentlemen, to a successful encounter with the rebels.”
Major McWhite raised his glass and Carey acknowledged the toast with a smile and a sip from his sherry. Of course it had been right to shoot him. After all the boy could have had a revolver in his hand, and why should he have taken the chance.
In the afternoon, Captain Young arrived from Cork in a staff car with a driver and two soldiers. Carey explained in more detail to Young what had happened. They looked at the body, read the medical report and again interrogated old Stack.
Afterwards, Young said to Carey, “I wish you hadn't shot him. There is not much we can learn from a dead body. Not that I am questioning your judgement,” he added hastily. “But we might have got some information out of him. Are you sure his father really doesn't know anything?”
“I think so,” replied Carey, “I know these people. He is not pretending. But we might try the elder brother. If the fellow told anyone anything at all it is bound to be his brother. Maybe it was the brother who had the rifle.”
“Right,” replied Young. “How do we do this?”
“Well,” said Carey. “Let's drive the old boy home. We can look through the cottage and see if his brother is there.”
“Although,” he added ruefully, “If the brother is involved, he most certainly won't be sitting at home waiting for us. Anyway, let's go. We better bring another car and a few more men. You never know what they might have waiting for you.”
They called for old Stack to be brought up again, and Carey said to him, “We are going to bring you home and have a look at where you live.”
Gerard Stack looked incredulous and replied hastily, “But I can walk home Sir. Tis no bother to me, I'm used to it.”
“No,” said Carey firmly but yet gently. “You are coming with us.”
The search of Gerard Stack's cottage revealed nothing. While they were searching, the other son came home. He had seen the military vehicles parked outside the cottage, and a soldier had challenged him before he was allowed to go into the little house. Carey and Young took it as evidence that he was not involved. Nevertheless, they questioned him extensively hoping to find the name of some fugitive with whom the younger brother had been very friendly. But they could find nothing that seemed even remotely of interest.
Before they went away, they said to Stack, “You can collect the body of your son tomorrow from the barracks. Make your arrangements for the funeral, but do it quietly. Don't make a show and don't allow others to make a show of it. If you do, there will be trouble for yourself and for your sons.”
“Yes Sir, Thank you Sir. I am sorry now,” stammered Gerard Stack.
Captain Young decided that he would drive straight back to Cork. He advised Carey to go back in the other car to the barracks in Midleton and spend the night there.
“I don't think you should be walking around the country, when this funeral is taking place tomorrow,” he said, before driving off.
The next morning the Cork Examiner carried the story on the front page.
OFFICER NARROWLY ESCAPES ASSASSIN’S BULLET
Captain Carey from Barryedmond near Midleton, narrowly escaped death yesterday when cycling home from a visit to Midleton. When approaching a sharp corner near his home, two gunmen hiding behind a bank suddenly opened fire on him from a range of about a hundred yards. With great presence of mind, Captain Carey threw himself to the ground and using the cover of the bank on one side of the road, he was able to approach his assailants.
Captain Carey, who since the recent outbreak of trouble in this part of the country, had taken the precaution of always carrying his revolver with him, engaged his opponents at close range. In the ensueing fight, one gunman was killed, while the other one fled through the fields.
Captain Carey is a well-known landowner and sportsman in the Midleton area. During the war he served with the Munster Rifles and was on General Allenby's Staff in the Palestinian campaign. After the war he retired to his estate near Midleton. The reason for the attack is not clear but…
Captain Young read the newspaper over breakfast. Ever since the incident had happened two days ago, he had realised that Carey would no longer be of use to Army Intelligence. The article in the newspaper underlined it. After breakfast he went to see his Commanding Officer and then sent a cable to Midleton asking Carey to come to Headquarters in Cork for an urgent meeting. Carey arrived at about three o'clock in the afternoon and they met in the mess. There were only a few other officers at the bar. They got themselves drinks and found a seat in the far corner where the others couldn't overhear their conversation. Young had his thoughts well-ordered.
“After what happened to you two days ago and particularly since this morning’s newspaper, I think everyone in County Cork now knows that you are working for the army. What was, a few months ago, confidential between us, is now public knowledge. I am worried about two things. First of all, your own safety. I am worried about it to such an extent that I wonder whether you can go home again in the near future, or move about without proper protection. Secondly, as a result of all this, your ability to obtain information quietly, without arousing suspicion, is somewhat diminished to say the least.”
“We have thought about this. We felt that to continue your life with a permanent bodyguard wouldn't appeal to you very much. Your request to resume active service came to mind again and we think we have a solution to both things. Let me tell you first that there are plans to raise a special auxiliary force. Indeed, it is more than a plan. The first steps have already been taken. It will be a force that will be trained specially in what you might call 'fighting the rebels with their own weapons.' It will be a special division of the Constabulary operating fairly independently. The idea is to recruit ex-servicemen with fighting experience. All ranks are welcome and we expect many young demobilised officers to apply. The officers of the force will be army regulars. I think they would be very pleased to have you. You might not get your rank back and it would indeed be unusual even to get a commission. But in view of your experience and knowledge they might make an exception. The job is simply to put the rebels out of business. Some of them will fight back, so the job is not without its danger. Would that sort of work appeal to you?”
The length of the monologue had allowed Carey to suppress his initial indignation and so he guardedly responded, “It would…”
“But this concern of yours about my safety is of course nonsense. I can look after myself. These boys have learned their lesson and it will take some time before they try again, if they ever will. I am certainly not going to stay permanently in barracks in Midleton, like some sort of fugitive in my own country. I don't like the idea and besides I think it is completely unnecessary. With respect to joining a special force, yes, I told you before I want to get back into active service and I wouldn't mind joining this special force that you are talking about. But I want my full rank and a post in the regular army. I don't mind where the army sends me and the more action the better.”
“You see,” he added after a short pause, “I feel myself too young to spend the rest of my days on a farm. Country life is too dull for a fellow like me. Later perhaps when I am ten or twenty years older. But not now. So… yes indeed, I am your man for the special force.”
“Unfortunately I cannot decide on the terms under which you would re-enlist,” resumed Young cautiously. “All I can do is give you a recommendation and I certainly will do that. In any event I will pass on that you are interested in joining. There would be a training period in England by the way, but I am sure you wouldn't mind that.”
After taking a sip of his drink, he added, as if it was an afterthought. “I could probably get you over there in a matter of days and you would be safe.”
“Thanks a lot,” replied Carey light-heartedly, “But that is not necessary. I will be perfectly safe in Midleton. You get the conditions of this enlistment right and then I will be over in England as soon as they need me.”
“Alright, alright,” replied Young raising his hands, “I don't want to push you. But at least stay here for the night. We can have dinner in the club and play a game of cards.”
When, later in the evening, they were having dinner, Young resumed the conversation.
“I had a word with the Colonel about you. He thinks you should go over to England at once. It is foolish to stay here. We, unfortunately, cannot decide on the conditions of your enlistment, but the Colonel said he would arrange for a recommendation from General Strickland himself. That will do the trick I should say.”
“Well, I'm ready to go then,” said Carey happily, “There is only one thing I must do besides packing a suitcase and that is say goodbye to my mother.”
“Can you leave the farm just like that?” asked Young with some surprise.
“Why not?” said Carey, “Mother managed it for years after father died while I was away in the army. And she can do it another few years. She loves it!”
Within a few days it was common knowledge that Carey had left for England. Most people believed he got away before the next attempt on his life would be made. Others felt that he was too restless to settle down on the farm and would have left in any event. But no one knew the real purpose.
When Henry heard of it he went to see Carey's mother. The visit was not more than a traditional gesture of one farmer offering help to another who might need it. Mrs. Carey received him in her drawing room. She showed her appreciation for the visit by offering Henry a glass of whiskey which, out of courtesy, he accepted. But she said quite firmly that she could manage without her son as she had indeed done for many years.
“Will he be away for long?” asked Henry but realising that it was perhaps too inquisitive he added: “I mean if he would be away for some time and you did need anything, please don't hesitate to call.”
“It is very kind of you to offer help,” replied Mrs. Carey. “But the truth is I don't know whether he will be away long. He didn't say what he was going to do. I'm worried about him. I know he was away in the war and I was worried then as well. But this is different. He never told me what he was doing these last few months but I have my ears open like the rest of us, and I didn't like what I heard. God knows I don't approve of the violence against soldiers and the police that you read about in the papers these days but that is no reason to turn against your own. It is maybe as well that he is back in the army and, please God, they will send him some place where it makes no difference whether you are Irish or English.”
“Is he back in the army?” asked Henry with surprise.
“I don't know that for sure now,” resumed Mrs. Carey. “But he packed his uniforms and when I asked why would he do that, he just said he might have a need for them. I said are you going back to the army and he said maybe. Then he asked would I mind if he did and I said no, I would not. And that's the truth. I would not. But I would not like to see him now in his own country in uniform.”
Henry nodded sympathetically, “I know what you mean. Don't worry. He is the sort of boy that can look after himself. And as for the troubles, that will all come right in the end.”
“Please God it will,” replied Mrs. Carey. “And I am grateful to the Lord that my son's life was saved. But another life was lost and that's bad for all of us. To tell you the truth, I am not sure that the violence will go away. There are too many wild ones around altogether.”
“Come on now,” said Henry in an effort to cheer her up. “Don't be so gloomy. I am sure this won't last long. In two years time we will have forgotten about it.”
“I hope you are right Major, but I doubt it. People in this country have long memories. You should know that.”
“Well, I must be off now,” said Henry as he rose from his chair. “Do let me know when you need any help.”
When later that evening, he was having tea with Julia in the dining room he told her about his meeting with Mrs. Carey. “I never liked the man,” said Julia.
“He was uncivilised,” she continued. “Maybe he was an officer but he was not a gentleman. At least not towards ladies. But why his own countrymen wanted to murder him I don't understand and what is even a greater mystery to me: he seemed to expect it. Why would he otherwise have carried a revolver. Do you understand this Henry? I mean, you are a retired officer as well and you don't carry a revolver. Are they going to shoot at you also and are you going to let them? Was maybe poor grandfather shot by these fellows? Oh, it is too beastly even to think about it. Do you understand anything about it? Do you, Henry?”
Her last words betrayed again the fear and the emotion that she always showed when talking about grandfather's death. It was revulsion as much as fear and the fear came from failing to understand rather than from physical danger. She seemed so upset, that Henry decided he should try to put her mind at rest by explaining what had happened, even if she might disapprove of his own passive attitude.
“You remember,” he began, “the ambush near Carrigtwohill when some soldiers were dragged off their bicycles and their rifles taken. Well, after that ambush, an Intelligence Officer from Army Headquarters in Cork came to see me. He asked whether I could give any information about persons who might have connections with the rebels, and if not, could I keep an eye open, so to say, and report anything that I considered suspect. I said that I had no information but that if I knew who the perpetrators were, I would most certainly tell him. He said a lot more. The long and the short of it was: Would I act as a spy for Army Intelligence. Oh, they don't call it a spy. They say: helping with information. Of course I said no. But that is beside the point. What I want to say is that I am quite sure he also talked to Captain Carey and I think Carey said yes. There are a lot of other people in the area who believe that Carey agreed to work for Army Intelligence and all these people also believe he was behind the raid on the pub and the hardware shop in Midleton. Whether it is true or not I don't know, but a lot of people believe it to be true and that is, I think, why they tried to kill him.”
Julia was dumbfounded. It took some time before she could find words and what she then said was as uncompromising as Henry had feared.
“What you are saying is that they only shoot at people who are helping the army and they don't shoot at you because you don't. But why, why would you not help? Don't tell me you are afraid. I know you are not. It is your army. You served in it. They surely didn't think that grandfather was a spy as you call it.”
“Oh no,” said Henry hastily. “I don't think that my father's death had anything to do with it. I believe they were burglars who were surprised and then panicked. As for myself: Yes, I served in the army. I am an officer, or at least I was. I am a farmer now. But whatever, officer or farmer, I am not a spy. I am not a common informer.”
“But you would tell them if you knew who had done it?”
“Yes,” said Henry quite firmly.
“Then what is the difference?”
Henry looked at her in bewilderment, incapable of giving any further explanation. He was confused, embarrassed and hurt. It seemed so logical in his own mind but how to explain it to the girl in simple words. He stood up and left the table, saying curtly,
“Ah, you don't understand these things.”
After finishing her tea, Julia went straight to her room, took pen and paper and wrote to Captain Young that she would be in Cork next Tuesday. As a precaution she added:
Please don't trouble yourself with writing me back. If you are there, I will be pleased to see you. If not I will be content to have my tea alone.
But he was there. After they had talked about her shopping, she asked him suddenly, “Why did they try to kill Captain Carey?”
She tried to ask as innocently as she could manage and without changing the tone of her voice, almost in the same way as asking 'Will it rain tomorrow?' The question took Young off guard. The cup which was moving towards his mouth, suddenly stopped, and with a slight stammer he said, “Excuse me. What did you say?”
“Why did they try to kill Captain Carey?” She repeated the words slowly, deliberately and with a deceptive smile on her face.
“I really don't know,” he replied rather sheepishly.
“Come on Captain Young. I am old enough to hear the truth. Everyone tells me that he worked for Army Intelligence.”
“Yes,” said Young still rather uncertain of himself, “I have heard that. It may be the reason and it may not. It could also be a personal quarrel.”
“I doubt that,” insisted Julia. “The Irish don't settle their quarrels by shooting at each other from behind the hedge.”
“Well,” said Young, cautiously and still looking for a way out of the conversation, “Maybe he was working for Intelligence. But you should not worry about these things. Let's talk about something pleasant and not about these awful rebels. I am tired of it and I wish I was back in England. Please let's not spoil this happy occasion with such talk.”
“But I do worry about it,” said Julia with great perseverance. “If there is no specific reason, must we expect that they will try to shoot at every ex-officer.”
Young began to understand what her fear could be and after some hesitation leaned forward towards her and said in a low voice, “Look, I shouldn't talk about it. Yes, there was a specific reason why they wanted to get him. But don't ask me more.”
“So what they tell me is true. He was working for Army Intelligence.”
“Yes, in a way he was; but I don't know too much about the matter. I am in a different section, you see.”
He paused, not knowing exactly how to divert her persistent questions. It gave Julia the opportunity to ask another one.
“Tell me Captain, what is the difference between someone who works for Army Intelligence and another loyal citizen who will help to get rebels locked up. I mean why shoot at the one and not at the other?”
The question only confused Young further and all he was able to say was, “I honestly don't know and may I suggest that you don't worry about it. There is absolutely no reason for concern.”
“Well, I hope not. But I must confess that I do not like it. People are shooting at each other and I am told I shouldn't worry about it. Poor grandfather was killed and they tell me it was all an accident. Oh, sometimes I wish I was back in England.”
She stopped suddenly and a slight blush appeared on her cheeks when she realised that she had perhaps revealed a little too much of her feelings.
“I wish all the time that I was back in England,” said Young simply, and then hesitantly added, “I hope to get leave in two month's time. Would you not come to England then? You could stay with my parents or perhaps you could visit your family in London and I could come and see you there. We could go to the theatre together and do things. It would be really great fun; I mean to meet each other away from this miserable country.”
He looked up at her, a little shy and with his eyes begging for a favourable reply. She was touched by what was obviously genuine, but resisted her feelings, stood up and said in a measured voice, “No, I'm afraid that is not possible Captain. I must go now. It is a long way home.”
Young stood up as well and, although the disappointment showed all over his face, he said politely, “I am sorry if I upset you. I didn't mean to and I will not mention it again. I hope you will forgive me. May I nevertheless see you again? You know what it means to me to speak to someone like you.”
“Certainly,” said Julia, without showing any emotion, “I will be in Cork again in two weeks time. Same place, same time.”
She turned round and walked out of the lounge, leaving a somewhat bewildered man behind her. He tried to follow her saying, “Thank you. I will be here waiting for you,” but she had already disappeared through the door.
When she was in the carriage and on her way home again, she felt annoyed with herself. Having set out to get answers to certain questions without showing her own concern about them, she had ended up not only by betraying her fear, but also her desire to leave Ireland. She kept wondering if he had really noticed it. Sometimes she felt he had and she imagined how he would sit back in his chair, wherever that was, with that condescending smile that men can have when they are thinking about a woman. At other times she realised that she was exaggerating the incident out of proportion. It had, after all, only been a conversation over a cup of tea. But if she had perhaps revealed a particular worry, would he keep it to himself? It would be simply awful if he was to talk about it to someone else.
She kept brooding about it until she was home and Miss Jennings started to tell her what little John had done during the day. The child was in its playpen in the children's room and she went to see it at once. When she entered the room, the boy dropped his toy, scurried along the railing to where she was approaching and with a big smile, held out his hands to be lifted out. She took the child into her arms, kissed it fondly and sat down.
“Oh, my little boy,” she said, as much to herself as to the child, “What are we going to do? They say you are Irish. So you will perhaps someday understand what I don't understand; the difference between being Irish and being English. Or the difference between helping the police and being an informer. Someday you will have to know. For then this land will be yours and this house will be your home. The place where you want to be no matter what goes on around you.”
She stood up and while she held the child affectionately she continued with a gentle mocking gravity in her voice, “Unless of course, we go to South America. Then you will become a South American. A handsome young Argentine gentleman with a moustache, gesticulating while you speak fast and fluent Spanish.”
But then suddenly, she became serious again and her voice assumed the slow sad intonation of a lament,
“Oh, will we ever go? He doesn't really want to. And you, my boy, what do you want? But even if we go, would you ever forget that you are Irish? Would he ever allow you to forget? Oh, my child, what shall we do?“
Later that evening, she had supper in Henry's study and told him about her shopping in Cork, and meeting Captain Young again. Henry showed great interest in her purchases until suddenly she said, “Captain Young did say that Carey worked for Army Intelligence.”
Henry looked at her in surprise and asked, “Why would he tell you that?”
“Because I asked him. I wanted to find out why they tried to kill him.”
“I'm surprised that he told you,” said Henry somewhat irritated. “But not surprised that Carey worked for Intelligence. He was that sort of a fellow.”
“I never liked the man,” resumed Julia. “And I said so before. But why, for heaven’s sake, the contempt for what he did? We ought to be grateful to anyone who helps to get these rebels locked up.”
“1 didn't say I had contempt for him,” replied Henry defensively.
“I'm sorry. No of course you didn't.”
There was a silence. Henry quickly took the opportunity to change the subject, “What I meant to tell you really was that there is a letter from Uncle Patrick asking would we come over for Easter. They are receiving on Sunday afternoon and on Monday they all want to go to the Races in Mallow. What about it? You have never been there. The last time you were invited, you wouldn't go because you did not want to leave little John alone. He is much older now. Miss Jennings can look after him. It would be a nice break.”
She smiled at the idea and after a slight hesitation consented. “Yes alright then. I will come. That is, if Miss Jennings is prepared to stay. I don't know whether she has any plans for the holiday weekend.” “Even if she had I am quite sure that she will stay if you ask her,” said Henry.
13. WHAT TO DO
In the week before Easter, spring at last announced itself. The light north westerly wind swept the skies clear of clouds. The wind itself was cool but in the shelter of the trees and at the south side of the house, the sun began to announce the warmth and sweetness of the coming summer.
The ground was drying out and grass suddenly began to grow again, covering the fields with a fresh light green against which the yellow blossom of the gorse bushes on the banks and in the hedges made a pretty springtime picture of a country that seemed wholly absorbed with new life, bird song, growing crops and new-born animals. Any sowing and harrowing that had not yet been done stood out as having been left too late, and anxious farmers were working from daybreak to darkness to make up for the neglect.
Donoghmore House was soaking up the sunshine. With open windows, it was trying to relieve itself from its dampness acquired during the winter. In the afternoon Julia would open the double doors in the drawing room which led to the terrace on the west side of the house. There she would sit, doing some needlework or reading a novel and watching little John crawling and stumbling around making himself unbelievably dirty.
Henry was preoccupied with the work on the farm and he and Julia met only for meals and for the short periods that he would sit with her on the terrace watching his grandchild at his play. When the weather on Good Friday was still fine, Julia in an adventurous mood suggested that they should not take the train to Mallow but rather drive themselves in the gig and take the more direct way via Rathcormac and Ballyhooly, thus enjoying the fine weather and the scenery.
Henry raised objections. He sensibly pointed out that it might be fine tomorrow but what if the weather changed and they would have to drive back on Monday in the rain. Moreover, returning on Monday from the Mallow Race Course, it would be much easier to catch the train. Julia, not to be dissuaded, argued if the weather was bad they could stay on until Tuesday, and in any event they could take their long riding macs and umbrellas.
During dinner that evening, Henry finally yielded to her exhortations and then went on to make a virtue out of her victory by suggesting that if they were driving they might as well go via Fermoy so that he could go into Kavanagh's to see if they had a new set of blades for the mowing machine in stock. After that they could have lunch together in the Royal Hotel and still be in good time at Dumbermere Castle.
Julia was delighted, particularly with the idea of having lunch out. The weather held and the journey on Saturday was as pleasant as Julia had predicted. But the air was still cool and after about half an hour they stopped to wrap the woollen plaid around their legs. It made them sit close together on the single seat between the two large wheels.
Julia put her arm through Henry's and hugging it she said, “Oh, Henry, isn't this beautiful? Look at the countryside; so quiet and so peaceful. I wish we could drive forever; just the two of us in this lovely land. Why do people have to spoil it?”
Henry shook his head when he replied, “They don't want to spoil it. And even if some of them did want to, a handful of wild people won't be able to spoil the beauty of Ireland.”
“I did not mean that only; I meant also that we cannot be together here,” and after a short silence she continued. “You don't really want to leave Ireland, do you Henry?”
Henry gazed at the distant hills, wholly absorbed in his own thoughts, and Julia pulled his arm as if to remind him that he should reply. Then he said, “Yes, I don't really want to. I wish we could solve the problem without leaving.”
“It really is a problem for you, isn’t it?”
Henry nodded and she continued, “Whereas it ought to be a joy, God's gift of love. But the church doesn't allow it.”
Then, as if her mood had suddenly changed, she asked in a rather business-like fashion, “Did you ever get an offer for the farm?”
“Yes,” he said. “But it was far too low. It would be ridiculous to sell the farm for that sort of money. I am sure I can get a better price.”
“Well,” said Julia cheerfully, “Let's not think about it anymore. It is a beautiful day and we are going to enjoy ourselves. I am really looking forward to it. How far do we have to go to Fermoy? I am beginning to get an appetite.”
When they arrived in the town they left the mare in the livery stable just across the bridge and went on foot to the large hardware shop in Main Street. A new set of blades for the mowing machine was, of course, not in stock but a helpful young man promised to order one and have it in two weeks.
“More likely to be two months,” grumbled Henry as they were walking back to the main square, “but as long as I have it before the hay has to be cut it will be alright.”
The dining room of the Royal Hotel was crowded and they could not find a separate table for themselves. With some hesitation they accepted the kind offer made by two gentlemen to share their table. When Julia approached, the men stood up and introduced themselves.
Julia gracefully nodded her head, while Henry simply said, “My name is Henry O'Neill and this is Mrs O'Neill.”
After they had seated themselves again Julia felt obliged to explain, “It is very kind of you. We were almost thinking that we wouldn't get any lunch at all. We are on our way to relatives and still have a fair distance to go. We really didn't expect there would be so many visitors to Fermoy.”
A polite but yet animated conversation developed. Their new friends explained that they were officers stationed in Mitchelstown and had come down for a day's fishing having been told that the river was very good.
“Any luck?” asked Henry.
“No, not so far. But we will try again this afternoon. We must go back to Mitchelstown with a salmon.”
“How long have you been in Ireland?” asked Julia.
“Only a few weeks, Mrs O'Neill, and neither of us have been in Ireland before. It is a new experience and I must admit so far a pleasant one. If
I might ask you a question, Mrs O'Neill; I was thinking of asking my wife to come over for the summer months with the two children. Some people say it would not be wise and that the family would not be safe. What would your advice be?”
“Well,” said Julia, a little hesitantly, “I am English but I have lived here ever since I got married and I must say everyone has been very kind to me.”
“Your husband,” resumed the stranger looking at Henry, “is Irish I presume. Doesn't that make a difference?”
Julia smiled and, before Henry could say anything to correct the assumption she replied, “Indeed it does make a difference.”
When they had finished their lunch and were continuing their journey Julia said, “You see how easy it is.”
“What do you mean,” asked Henry, not understanding immediately what she was referring to.
“Strangers will just presume that we are married. You needn't even tell them. I didn't say anything during the conversation that wasn't perfectly correct and these two chaps just assumed that we were man and wife.”
“Yes, as long as they are strangers; but sooner or later they will find out.”
“But in South America everyone is a stranger and nobody will ever find out,” replied Julia quickly.
“That is very likely indeed,” said Henry, not wishing to cast a shadow over her simple faith in the future. “But at the moment we better prepare ourselves for the reception at Dumbermere Castle.”
“That sounds apprehensive,” retorted Julia, “Why do you say that? Do you think they suspect something?”
“Well no, but the thought did strike me that Dumbermere Castle is rather different from South America,” quipped Henry, and no further words were exchanged on the matter as they drove their horse on.
After tea at Dumbermere, Lady Jane asked Henry to come with her to the morning room to show him a new painting. It was clearly an excuse to talk to him alone, and after a brief and cursory viewing, as casually as she could manage, she remarked to Henry, “You know of course that there are all sorts of stories going around about Julia and yourself. Oh, let me assure you that I don't believe one word of them. I know you too well. What I am going to say is not in the least influenced by this malicious gossip.”
“What gossip?” interrupted Henry trying to sound innocent.
Lady Jane slowly turned her head away from the painting and looked inquisitively at Henry.
“Come, Henry,” she said in a tone as if she was correcting a naughty child. “You are an intelligent man. Don't pretend that you don't know. But I assure you that I don't believe it. If I did I wouldn't have invited the two of you together, would I?”
“Alright.” Henry gave in with a shrug of his shoulders. “I have heard about it. We ignore it. What else can we do?”
“My point is,” resumed Lady Jane, “that it is not nice to have these stories about and that you can do something about it. I think the girl should not remain in your house. It is not good for her reputation and it is not good for the education of her little boy either.”
“It is her house more than it is mine,” protested Henry.
“Nonsense,” said Lady Jane firmly. “In any event, she can't run a farm.”
“You would be surprised,” said Henry drily.
“You know very well what I mean.” Her tone began to betray slight annoyance. “The girl can come here. That is the best solution. I should have thought of it much earlier but she seemed so absorbed in her grief. When you were here the last time, I remember that I suggested that you should get her interested in something. Get her hunting or bring her to meet people in another way. Well, you certainly succeeded, but not quite how I imagined. Anyway, I wanted to talk to you first and if you agree, I will talk to her.”
“I am not sure that she is aware of these rumours,” said Henry, quite contrary to the truth. But then, to make up for it, he added. “She may not wish to believe them.”
“Then we must persuade her. I can explain to her that it would be more appropriate for her to live here.”
“It is perhaps better that I speak to her first. I know her much better than you do,” suggested Henry cautiously.
“As you wish. But please do it today or tomorrow. I would like to have the arrangements agreed before you go home again.”
The next day, after coming home from church, Henry and Julia, much encouraged by Lady Jane, went out for a walk together. As soon as they were out of sight of the house, Julia took Henry's arm and said cheerfully, “This is a boring place for a weekend. And with all those people around I can hardly talk to you.”
“They keep a good few horses and they have excellent hunting around here,” said Henry, ignoring her first remark. “Come, I will show you the paddock and the stables. You had better get used to the place, because they want you to live here.”
“What?” exclaimed Julia with a laugh.
“Yes, she says it will be better for your reputation.”
“Who says what?”
“Jane. She spoke to me about the rumours that are going round. I suppose it is really the reason why we were invited.”
“Does she know anything?” Julia asked, the expression on her face instantly changing from incredulity to apprehension.
“She says she doesn't believe any of the malicious gossip as she calls it. I think she is genuine in that.”
Julia stopped and took her arm out of Henry's. At first she had believed that it was all a joke. But now the full significance of it became clear to her and she burst out, “But this is preposterous. She says she is afraid of my reputation! You don't believe that Henry. She is concerned about her own reputation. She can't have gossip in the family. It would be better if she concerned herself a little with that son of hers. The way he looks at me at times make me feel that I am a mare in season and my owner had selected him as the stallion!”
“Hush,” said Henry. “The servants might hear you. You are wrong and you exaggerate. She is really concerned about you and the child. Anyway you had better listen to her. If you fly off the handle like this, she may come to believe that the rumours are true.”
“And what if she does,” replied Julia with all the defiance she could muster. “What does she mean to us? What do we care?”
But then a moment later it was gone and she pleaded and begged again, “Oh Henry, let's go away to where people don't know us. What does it matter how much you get for the farm. Let's sell it. It is the farm and this country that is keeping us apart.”
Her face was twisted with sorrow and anger and tears welled up in her eyes. Henry, overcome with concern and love, tried to console her, “Yes, of course, we will go away. As soon as we can manage. Don't worry now. Don't cry. It will all come right.”
When she had calmed down, Henry tried again to reason with her, saying, “Jane means well. When she talks to you please listen to her. Say that you will consider it. Show some appreciation for her concern. Be a brave girl. Behave as she expects you to. You don't want to betray our little secrets to her, do you…”
Thus they walked and argued, trying desperately to extricate themselves from the snare in which society seemed to have caught them. And thus, what, in their innocent expectation, should have been a joyful holiday weekend turned into a wicked torment.
Lady Jane spoke to Julia later that day. With great strength of will Julia played her role, pretending shock and indignation about the gossip, showing gratitude for Jane's concern and her kind offer to live at Dumbermere Castle. But she avoided the final acceptance, saying modestly that she had to consult her parents about it.
The weather remained fine and they all went to Mallow races on the Monday; Julia with the other ladies in the motorcar and the men in a horse drawn sidecar. It separated them for almost the entire afternoon. Henry met old friends on the race course and talked endlessly about the breeding of the horses that were running and their chances of success, comparing odds offered by the bookmakers against his own and his friends opinions, and then, after much argument, placing a careful bet.
The Earl had a horse running in the Novice Steeplechase. Everyone spoke well of the animal and they all put money on it; or said they did. It was more flattery than conviction because the horse ran badly and wasn't even placed. To salvage some of the Earl's hurt pride, it was generally agreed that the trainer had given the jockey the wrong instructions and whatever the instructions were, the jockey had failed to carry them out in a proper way. With better training and riding, the horse should have won, or nearly so.
It was after six when they arrived back at Dumbermere Castle. The light began to fade and there was no question of returning the same night to Donoghmore House. Henry and Julia were going to have to stay until the next morning. The races had been a distraction for Julia, but now that she was back in the large house and amongst people whom she felt were hostile to her, she became ever more depressed under the enormity of the problem that was facing her.
At dinner she was seated away from Henry between the Earl's son and a young cavalry officer, the son of a distant relative of Lady Jane who happened to be stationed in Mallow. Julia felt herself very much older than these two boys and their lack of appreciation of the difference in age offended her. Her response to the conversation was cool, haughty and unhappy. Her mood did not improve when after dinner the older ladies again treated her as an unfortunate and innocent girl who had become a war widow without ever having had a married life. One of them remarked that a honeymoon of seven days in a London Hotel was hardly the sort of thing that gave one an experience of married life.
Julia wanted desperately to be alone with Henry and feel his hand in her own but he was drinking port in the dining room, talking politics and probably trying to explain to the others that the troubles would magically disappear if you ignored them. When the men eventually came in she felt again that Henry neglected her when he sat down somewhat away from her to talk to an elderly lady about the breeding of a particular horse that had won the third race, while she was again suffering the attentions of the young cavalry officer. When she went to bed at last, she was glad it was all over.
The next morning the weather had changed. It was colder and a strong wind was driving heavy clouds in from the south west. They left immediately after breakfast, hoping to reach home before the rain started. Julia didn't seem to notice the weather. She sat close to Henry with a plaid wrapped around her, squeezing his arm and from time to time resting her head against his shoulder.
There was unusual military traffic on the road. After crossing the bridge at Ballyhooly they were stopped and asked where they came from and where they were going. Two miles further down, at the crossroad, they were stopped again. Henry asked what the purpose of all the activity was, but the sergeant replied that he did not know. He was only carrying out orders. But beyond Rathcormac the military seemed to have disappeared and the countryside was again as peaceful as ever.
“You are very quiet. Is there something wrong? You are not upset by these checkpoints are you?” asked Henry at last.
Julia slowly withdrew her arm and moved away a little. Her anguished face looked up at Henry and in a distressed voice she said, “You wouldn't think there was anything wrong, would you?”
“Oh, you mean Jane. She is only concerned about you. It wouldn't be the end of the world to live there for a short while.”
“Concerned about me,” Julia could not control her anger anymore. “She is no more concerned about me than she is about the kitchen maid. Her only concern is to avoid a scandal in the family. And if anyone ever mentions it to her she can say: 'Well, whether it is true or not, I have the girl under control now'. Can't you see, Henry that they are hypocrites. They invite their relatives only to criticise them and to tell them how to behave. Everything must go the way they want it and if it doesn't, it is somebody else's fault. They treat me like a schoolgirl but want me to live with them just in case I am not a schoolgirl but a London tramp who might bring the family into disrepute. They enter an indifferent horse in a race and when it doesn't win, they put the blame on the trainer and the jockey.”
She suddenly stopped and laughed, “They are ridiculous people and you should have more sense than to look up to them.”
Henry was bewildered by the outburst. He looked at her in amazement not knowing what to say. So they sat in silence again, each one in a corner of the seat as if they suddenly had separated. The mare sensing that his driver was no longer paying any attention to her, slowed down to a walk and finally stopped altogether to nibble at the grass in the side of the road. It shook Henry out of his bewilderment. He threw his arm around Julia, hugged her and said with a laugh, “How right you are. They are a pair of stuffed peacocks. Come on girl. Don't be despondent. We are almost home. Tomorrow it will all look different.”
“Perhaps,” said Julia coolly. “But come what may, I am not going to live there.”
Miss Jennings was waiting for them with lunch and they sat down immediately. Little John was delighted to see his mother again and his joy dispelled some of Julia's gloom. The child had had his lunch, but was still allowed to sit with them at the table, securely fastened to his high stool.
“You heard the news of course,” said Miss Jennings, when she brought in the soup.
“No, what news?” said Henry absentmindedly.
“I thought you would hear it, being near Fermoy,” continued Miss Jennings. “Well now, yesterday morning apparently, the rebels or the Republican Army as they seem to call themselves these days, captured two officers who were fishing in the river near Fermoy. Nobody knows where they are and this morning the paper says that the rebels will exchange them against a number of prisoners in Cork and if they do not let the prisoners free, they will shoot the officers. Is it not terrible times we are living in, when a gentleman can't even go fishing in peace!”
Julia, who had been absorbed in her play with the child, suddenly turned around and in an agitated voice asked, “When did this happen? Who were they? I mean, what were their names?”
“I don't know their names or where exactly it happened. Jimmy told me and he had heard it from a man in Lisgoold.”
“Oh Miss Jennings could you please find us a paper. Henry this is awful. It could be the two gentlemen with whom we had lunch. What were their names again? Bradshaw, and what was the other one, Harrison or what was it. Oh, that was the reason why the soldiers stopped us.”
“Don't get upset now Julia. Our friends said they were only down for the day, so it is probably two others and they won't get hurt. These rascals love to get publicity. This is politics, not war. Killing two unarmed officers won't get them any glory and they are well aware of it. So don't worry. It will all come right.”
And addressing himself to Miss Jennings, he said, “Could you send Jimmy out to get a paper in Lisgoold?”
“Still I think it is awful and I wish that all this violence would stop,” interrupted Julia.
“Tis true Miss Julia,” said Miss Jennings.
John was meanwhile loudly asking for attention, hammering with his little fists on the table. Julia turned to him, but the joy of coming home had been spoiled.
That same evening Julia went up to Henry's study. She did not sit down and simply said, “I have taken a decision. I will return to my parents. Once you have sold the farm and found a foothold in South America I will join you. I will tell my parents that I am coming on a holiday and to do some shopping. If it takes you very long to sell the farm, I will make some excuse. I am sure they will be pleased to have me and won't be too inquisitive. But if you don't sell the farm I will not come back here. I hope you do. I want to be with you more than anything else.”
Henry nodded. “That is a good decision. You are a brave girl and I love you very much.” And getting up from his chair he embraced her, whispering into her ear, “Of course, I'll sell the farm and we will start a whole new life together.”
“Please Henry do. Because I cannot stand this much longer.”
“Come then,” he said and pushed her gently towards the bedroom.
The next morning immediately after breakfast, Julia sat down to write three letters. The first one was to the Countess of Dumbermere. It read:
Dearest Jane,
It was very kind of you to ask me to come and stay with you as a member of the family. During my visit last weekend I came to realise how beautiful and quiet your home really is. I would love to consider it as my own but before accepting your very generous suggestion, I feel I should go back to London and talk to my parents. I am leaving as soon as my travel arrangements have been made…
She smiled when she re-read the letter, thinking, “If Jane believes what I write, she is a stupid cow and if she sees it for what it is, a polite excuse, well, so much the better. Then we both know where we stand.”
The second letter was to her parents:
Dear Mama and Papa,
I have been longing for some time to see you all again. If you can have me and little John for a few weeks, I will come over, hopefully within the next few days already. I will send a telegram when exactly I will arrive. There is no need for you to come to Paddington Station. I can take a cab. Having decided to visit London again, I can hardly wait for the day…
She thought long and hard before putting pen to paper a third time. It would be easier and perhaps also wiser, not to write it. Not writing it would, at most, bring her reproach from a person for who she didn't really care. Writing, on the other hand, would almost certainly encourage something of which she was afeard and didn't want. Yet she wrote:
Dear Captain Young,
I regret to say that I have some matters to attend to in England and I shall therefore be away from Cork for the foreseeable future. It was nice to meet you and perhaps some time we will meet again in Ireland or in England…
Over lunch, she raised the question of booking her passage to London. It would be best to go to the office of the Steamship Company in Cork and why could she not go herself tomorrow. But Henry disapproved of the idea saying that he had to go to Cork in any event and would make the necessary arrangements then at the same time. When she asked if he was going the same day, his reply was evasive; it would depend on the work. There were still two fields to be harrowed, cattle had to be shifted to other grazing and a decision made on which animals would go to Midleton market on Saturday.
It occurred to her that Henry was trying to delay her departure but she didn't want to say so. Instead she asked if Jimmy could hitch the mare to the gig so that she could go to Lisgoold to post some letters. Noticing the surprise on Henry's face, she explained that she had written to her parents about her forthcoming visit and also to Lady Jane to thank her and explain why she would, for the moment, not accept the kind offer. She did not mention the third letter and wondered afterwards why. There was, she assured herself nothing to hide. Henry offered to send Jimmy out to post the letters but she declined insisting that she liked going alone and that the drive would give her some fresh air.
The transport was soon rigged up and she left in high spirits. When she came to the end of the drive, she turned right onto the main road and drove to Midleton instead of going left to Lisgoold where the nearest post office was. Having arrived in Midleton she bought stamps at the post office and posted the letters. Then she went to the Railway Station. At the ticket office she asked for the departure times of the steamer to Fishguard and the arrival times of the connecting train to London. The clerk informed her that there were three sailings a week: Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday. He could sell her a ticket to London but a cabin reservation had to be requested from Cork. To her question whether a first class cabin would be available next Saturday, he replied that this was more than likely.
Julia got home just before tea was about to be served and Henry was already in the dining room. He expressed surprise that she had taken so long to return, but with a smile, she explained she had gone to Midleton instead hoping that delivery of the letters would be quicker I posted from there.
“Will you go to Cork tomorrow?” she asked, to which Henry replied that it would have to wait another day.
Eventually on Friday, Henry went. Julia gently hinted that she might come with him but he either ignored the hint or didn't understand it. He was unusually silent that morning and seemed to be vexed. When she asked if there was anything annoying him, he said, absentmindedly, “No, No,” and after a while added, “I am thinking of getting all that cattle to Midleton tomorrow.”
“Is it a problem?” she asked kindly to which he replied curtly, “Yes, it is.”
When he came at last to Cork he went straight to the solicitor to hear if any progress had been made with the sale of the farm.
“I do not have any offers,” explained Arthur Riordan, “It is not really possible to get firm offers until we put the estate on the market. All I have is an indication of what it is likely to fetch.”
“But that figure is ridiculous,” retorted Henry, “the place is worth two or three times that amount.”
“I realise it is disappointing,” rejoindered Riordan, “but that is the advice I have. You might of course get more if you put it up for auction.”
“However, what I have been told is this,” he continued, “Sell the land gradually in lots of twenty-five to fifty acres. Parcels of that size are within the financial means of local farmers such as your nearer neighbours. Leave the house sale till last or maybe, don't dispose of the house at all. Houses of that size are difficult to sell. You may be better off keeping it with twenty acres around it. Perhaps at some time in the future, a businessman from Cork might pay a reasonable price for it. At the moment it is almost impossible. The troubles do not help either of course. Think about it. Either put the whole estate up for auction – you can always place your own reserve on it – or try to sell a parcel of fifty acres to begin with and see how you get on with that.”
“I will think about it,” was all that Henry managed to reply and he left. All his worries of the last few days had been confirmed. It was the most inopportune time to sell the farm. It would mean either accepting a price far below the real value or breaking the estate up and that would take time.
Absorbed in his thoughts he walked back to the stables where he had left the horse and gig until at the end of the South Mall he remembered that he had some shopping to do and more importantly, arrangements to make for Julia's trip to London.
The clerk in the booking office wrote the times of departure and arrival on a piece of paper and after having added up the total fare, he finally asked what date would Mrs O'Neill like to travel. “When would you have a first class cabin available?” asked Henry.
“If necessary, tomorrow.”
The reply threw Henry a little. He had not anticipated to see her leave so early.
“Tomorrow,” he repeated. “No, No, that would not do at all. Sometime next week.”
“Tuesday then,” suggested the clerk.
“No,” replied Henry, hastily, “Saturday of next week.”
But on the way back it was again the farm that dominated his thoughts. With it came the memory of his wife Elizabeth, as it somehow always did when he was thinking about giving up the farm. It was really her land. After her it belonged to his dead son and now to the child. What right had he to sell it? If Elizabeth knew what he was trying to do, would she approve of it?
“But wondering what dead people would think is ridiculous”, he said to himself, “It is better to wonder what the child will do with the farm. Would he want to work it at all? And if he wanted it what hope would he have now that they, Julia and himself were destroying his future in Ireland. Was not Julia right after all? Was it not better to face up to what they had done, tear up the past and forget about Ireland?”
He woke up from his thoughts when the horse suddenly slowed down from the easy and regular rhythm of the trot, bent his neck and nervously pricked his ears forward. In front of him was a young man pushing a bicycle with a punctured tyre so that the rim of the wheel made a rattling, grinding sound on the surface of the road. The strange noise had frightened the horse.
“Quiet now, quiet,” Henry said soothingly to the animal, “It is only a bicycle; nothing to be afraid of.”
He encouraged the horse to go forward and when passing the young man they looked each other for an instant in the eyes. The young man turned his head quickly away as if afraid. Henry thought the face was familiar but could not immediately remember where and how. But five paces further down the road the association came back.
Henry pulled up the horse and turned round in his seat. The young man instantly dropped his bicycle to the ground and to Henry's utter astonishment, produced a revolver from under his jacket and pointed it at Henry. Henry looked from the face to the revolver and back again to his face. Finally he said, “I thought I recognised you. And since you helped me once, I stopped to see if I could help you. If you put that thing away I will give you a ride to where you can get your puncture mended.”
Michael Leahy's fright turned quickly into embarrassment when he realised he had made a mistake. He mumbled an excuse, put the weapon into his pocket again, lifted his bicycle from the ground and walked to the vehicle. It was not all that easy to get the bike in. Most of it overhung the limited space behind the seat and they had to tie it down with a rope. Even then, Michael had to hold the handlebars to prevent the front wheel from slipping sideways.
When they were going again, Henry asked casually, “Have you been walking for long like this?”
“No, only five minutes. The tyre is damaged. I am afraid it is beyond repair, otherwise I could have fixed it myself.”
“Do you have far to go?”
“Yes,” the reply was abrupt and made it clear that Michael Leahy was nervous and didn't want to elaborate on where he was going. Henry was not quite at ease either with this nervous passenger carrying a revolver.
“Alright, I understand,” he said, “I am on my way home. Just tell me where you want to get off.” They drove on in silence. Henry began to realise that he had landed himself in a predicament. The lad was obviously on the run and he was helping him.
“Why did you pull a gun on me?” he asked finally. “If you hadn't I would not have known that you are on the run.”
“You mean to say you don't know that I am a wanted man?” There was surprise but also a slight disappointment in his voice.
“How should I know? The Constabulary is not in the habit of providing me with a list of persons they are looking for.”
“Your friend Captain Carey knows,” said Michael gloomily.
“That may be so, but I am not Captain Carey,” Henry was beginning to get irritated and angrily he added. “Look, if you don't trust me, get off and we will say no more about it.”
It apparently made an impression on Michael Leahy because more diffidently he continued, “I am sorry. But you must understand that I have to be careful. It is not easy for me to trust a man like you.”
“That is understandable, I suppose. But tell me about Captain Carey. What does he do and what does he know?” Michael looked at Major O'Neill with disbelief.
“You mean that you don't know that Captain Carey is an informer; an agent of the British Forces and that he has tortured one of my comrades.”
“I knew he was working for the army. At least I suspected as much even before someone took a pot shot at him. But I don't know about any torture and quite frankly, I would find it difficult to believe such stories.”
“It is not a story; it is true,” said Michael simply. “It happened in the military barracks in Cork. We know the day and the hour it happened. They beat him almost to death and your friend did it; nobody else. There was another officer present; an Englishman, Captain Young. But he left the dirty work to your friend.”
Henry looked intently at the face of his unexpected passenger. He had always been inclined to regard stories about torture in the barracks as malicious distortions of the truth. But this lad seemed to believe what he was saying. Still, Henry was not prepared to accept it.
“Well,” he said. “A prisoner might get a dig in the ribs during interrogation; or a tap with a baton on his behind. But that is not torture. Anyway, how do you know what happens in the barracks.”
“We have friends.”
“You mean you have garrulous old men who tell you what you want to hear.”
But Michael Leahy shook his head. “No, we were told by someone who has as much sympathy for our cause as you have.”
The lad seemed so convinced of his own story that Henry began to consider the possibility that, although perhaps exaggerated, there might be some truth in what he was saying and, rather defensively, he remarked, “Well, if it is true, I would not condone it. Was this torture the reason they tried to kill Carey?”
Michael Leahy nodded without saying anything. “Well, whoever laid the ambush, he was not a very good shot.” It was said with more than a hint of sarcasm.
“The next time he will not escape,” said Michael Leahy grimly.
“But he has left the country. I am sure you know that.”
“We think he will come back and if he doesn't we will get him in England.”
“You seem to be fairly sure of yourself. But as I said, I do not condone torture and neither do I approve of murdering someone simply because you have a grudge against him. I know what I am talking about. My father was shot at his own doorstep.”
Henry said it with some emphasis. Then suddenly a thought struck him. “You seem to know a lot. Do you know who shot my father?”
“No, I don't.” It was a blatant lie. But what else could he say!
“You do know he was shot.”
“I remember reading it in the paper,” said Michael hesitantly and struggling to hide his anxiety. Then suddenly afraid that he would give himself away he added, “Look, I don't want to be driven into Lisgoold. I might be recognised. Could I get off here?”
“But you are still a good mile and a half from town. I can let you off at the last crossroad. Besides, how do you get your bicycle mended?”
“Oh, I will manage. If you leave me off at the next fork, I will be nearly home.”
Michael was looking the other way while he was speaking. Henry noticed that he was ill at ease but thought it was only the fear of being recognised in Lisgoold.
“If I were you I would throw that weapon into the ditch and forget about your rebel friends. You can't beat the army and there are more intelligent ways of getting political reform. You will all end up in jail if not in front of a firing squad. What good is that going to do to the country?”
“You say that because you don't understand these things; only an Irishman can understand that this is the only way open to us.”
Any sympathy Henry had felt for the young man now disappeared totally. He turned on Leahy with barely controlled rage saying, “You miserable little traitor, how dare you say that? My name can be traced back in Irish history for hundreds of years. I am an Irishman and you and your savage friends are the renegades. You brought shame on all of us. Get off with you at once! Go away and do whatever you like. But don't you dare to say ever again that I am not an Irishman.”
He had meanwhile pulled the horse up and begun to untie the rope which was holding the bicycle.
Michael Leahy was completely stunned by the outburst. He could not think of any words to protest. Neither did it occur to him that he could easily force Henry to bring him to where he really wanted to get off. He obediently helped in releasing the bicycle and when he was on the road again he sheepishly said, “Thank you for the ride,” and then waved goodbye with his hand as Henry drove off.
At home Julia was waiting for him, anxious to know when she would travel. She showed surprise on hearing that it would only be Saturday next week. Noticing her surprise, Henry explained that it was the earliest date that a suitable cabin was available, and anyway, did she not need a few days to pack.
She smiled, understanding that it was probably his reluctance to face up to their separation and said sweetly, “Well, it will give us another week together.”
He was glad to hear her say it and the anger that was still with him about his encounter with Michael Leahy disappeared. He didn't tell her about it, sensing that it was one of the few things in him that she did perhaps not fully understand.
She asked whether he had seen the solicitor and was there any news about the sale of the farm.
“Well, yes,” he replied, “and there are possibilities. But it will take a little more time than I thought. At least if we want to get a reasonable price.”
It was not quite true, but it was pleasant to believe that it might be.
“It doesn't matter,” she said bravely. “I can wait.”
14. VERLING'S FARM
Michael Leahy had been greatly confused by Henry's outburst and it took a while before he came back to his proper senses. By that time the horse and gig had disappeared around a corner of the road. He cursed himself for not having responded immediately. It would have been easy to force O'Neill to bring him much nearer to the camp. Better still, he could have commandeered the horse and gig and left O'Neill to do the walking. Who did he think he was anyway! Yes, he and the likes of him had been in Ireland for generations; that was true, but only to oppress the peasants and the true Irish. A West Brit, that was all he was.
It was at least another two miles to a place he knew to be safe, where he could leave the bicycle and get some rest before walking on to the camp at O'Connell's farm. The bicycle with the flat tyre was awkward to push and time and again he cursed his bad luck; particularly now that at last, things seemed to have improved for him.
After John Fitzpatrick had left him behind on the Blackwater, he had gone back to the camp. John had said to await their return; it could be several weeks. On John's request, he had sent a message back to headquarters in Cork to say they had safely crossed the river, but that he, Michael, had been forced to return because of an injury. To his surprise, he had received a message back from HQ to expect six new volunteers for training.
They had arrived in ones and twos on their bicycles and the assignment to train these new lads had restored some of his lost self-confidence. He had worked at it with zeal even though there were no weapons of any kind available in the camp, and the intricacies of handling a Lee Enfield rifle had to be learned from an old army manual.
Two days ago the column had unexpectedly returned, tired but in good spirits. They brought with them stories of a cold and wet camp in the wilder parts of the Knockmealdown Mountains, of long night marches and little success, except for a raid on the RIC barracks in Clogheen, which had yielded a dozen rifles and ammunition. They had shared them with their friends from Tipperary and Waterford.
One hilarious incident had occurred when by sheer happenstance they had stumbled on two British officers fishing in the River Blackwater. They had captured them because the leader of their joint column, a Tipperary man, suddenly got the idea that he might exchange them for some of his friends who had recently been arrested in Cahir. The British had been thunderstruck when told to drop their fishing gear and get out of the river. One of them had said, “Then I will lose my rod', as if that was the only thing that mattered at that moment. The pair were now locked up in an isolated farm, sampling their service in Ireland from another position in life.
The morning after the return of the column, John Fitzpatrick had asked Michael to go to Cork HQ personally to report the safe return of the column and get some general instructions on what further action to undertake. John should have gone himself, but he was tired and reluctant to give up the comfort and relative security of the O'Connell farm before he had had an opportunity of enjoying it. Michael was pleased; for one thing, to have the confidence again of his friend, and for another, to get the chance to leave the camp and get involved in a real job. He had urged John Fitzpatrick to give him a revolver. John had laughed saying it might do him more harm than good if stopped by a patrol. But Michael had insisted, urging that in Cork he might be recognised by someone.
The instructions Michael obtained in Cork promised new action – Headquarters wanted the Column to make another strike on the main Cork-Midleton road – and the thought of this alone was already exciting Michael. Since the British believed that they had wiped out the organisation in Midleton and that Cork itself was too weak to undertake any action of importance, to confuse them, a daring attack was to be made near Midleton after which the column could withdraw again behind the Blackwater. If successful, the British would think there was a strong force north east of Cork city and they would withdraw forces from West Cork and the Mallow area to patrol an area where nothing was to be found.
An empty cottage along the Cork-Midleton road could serve as a hideout for the column during the day. The attack should be made towards evening so that withdrawal could take place under cover of darkness. Upon Michael’s question as to what exactly should be attacked, the Brigade Commander had answered any military vehicle or patrol would do; there was enough military traffic on the road to select something suitable. The damage done to the British forces was not really important. It was the shock of an armed attack so deep into an area which the British believed to be safe was the key goal.
Michael reported it all in great detail to John, including his misfortune with the bicycle. But he did not mention the chance encounter with Henry O'Neill.
The next day John and Michael went out together to reconnoitre the best area for the attack, to locate the cottage and see if it was suitable for their purpose and to work out the plan for their advance and retreat. Two others were sent out separately to record all military traffic in Cork and Midleton from four o'clock until dusk. This team reported seven single lorries, a convoy of four vehicles, a motorcar with three officers, two policemen on bicycles and a whole company of Cameron Highlanders marching back to Midleton.
“It would be nice to get a motorcar full of officers,” mused John Fitzpatrick.
“As long as it isn't followed within five minutes by a company of Highlanders,” said Michael, half in jest.
“I wouldn't worry about that,” replied John, “We can move cross country much faster than ordinary infantry.
Unless they were in lorries because then they could cut off our retreat. To get away safely is the most difficult part of the operation. Shooting up a lorry or two is child's play.”
They decided to take a day's rest and to rehearse their plan before carrying it out. Waiting any longer to carry out more reconnaissance would, they felt, only increase the danger of detection. When the day came they moved off two hours before daybreak, in four separate small groups. Their first goal was a farm on the back-road to Carrigtwohill where they left their bicycles. It was the same farm where Pat Duggan had, half a year ago, hidden his captured rifles in a hayfloat.
From the farm they moved through the country and across the railway line to the deserted cottage where they arrived just before daybreak. It was not really a very good spot for an ambush. The stretch of road on either side was straight for several hundred yards. It gave a clear view but vehicles moved along at a good pace and there would not be much time to shoot the driver, which was, they figured, the only way to stop the vehicle. There were no other buildings nearby. The nearest farm was some four-hundred yards on the Cork side just where the road turned. On the Midleton side, the road went slightly up hill and after about two-hundred yards dipped down out of sight.
All day they waited inside the cottage, lying on the floorboards so as to keep away from the windows. The glass panes had been shattered some time ago and the wind, mingled at times with light rain, blew freely through the two rooms. They were nervous and cold. They ate some bread and milk which they had brought with them, but for the rest they were silent, for fear that a passer-by would hear their voices. In the afternoon the weather cleared, but the wind increased making their position if anything still more uncomfortable. Traffic passed at regular intervals. It was mostly ordinary horse-drawn civilian vehicles and cyclists. Military vehicles were few and far between and John Fitzpatrick began to fear that there might not be a good target at the right time, which they had determined should be slightly before dusk. Ideally they could then retreat to their bicycles during the last of daylight and start the long road back to the river Bride in darkness.
Nightfall, according to the calendar, would be at ten minutes past seven which meant that it would not be fully dark until at least half past seven. But traffic would be lighter by then, which on the one hand would be useful, but on the other hand would increase the risk that no suitable military vehicle passed by, which would be unforgivable. Therefore, John decided to take a risk and moved them into position at six o'clock, a full half hour earlier than planned.
He posted his men behind the hedge at either side of the cottage, a distance of twenty yards between each man. The twelve of them thus covered a front of about two-hundred-and-fifty yards along the north side of the road. He took for himself the first position on the Cork side and posted Michael at the other end. His orders were to start firing as soon as he had opened up and they had a clear line of sight themselves.
They had expected a long wait in their exposed positions, but no sooner had they settled down, when an army lorry approached. As he aimed his rifle, John Fitzpatrick considered for a moment to let it pass and wait for the next one, but then he pulled the trigger. The lorry was almost abreast of him when he fired again. As it travelled on, a hail of rifle fire burst out. Fifty yards beyond the cottage the lorry veered to the right and smashed into the fence at the other side of the road.
Michael Leahy and two others at the far end of the line, climbed over the hedge and ran towards it. The driver was dead. A bullet had hit him in the temple. But the man in the other seat was unhurt, and at the sight of the three Irish lads with their rifles, he put up his hands over his frightened face.
“Come out quickly,” snapped Michael. “And keep your hands up.”
The other man, whose stripes identified him as a corporal, climbed out, trying to keep his hands up. He stumbled and almost fell back on top of the dead driver, but eventually he stood, trembling on his legs, beside the lorry. One of the volunteers grabbed the two rifles and the ammunition and then looked into the back of the lorry. There were only mattresses, blankets and some kitchenware.
With disappointment they returned to join their friends. When they had reached the other side of the road and started to clamber through and over the hedge, another shot rang out. Michael looked up and down the road and then saw to his consternation a second lorry approaching from the Cork side. Most of the other men had left their posts already to start the retreat through the fields. Only John Fitzpatrick had, while walking back along the hedge, kept the road under observation. He had noticed the second lorry and fired. Michael and his two companions dived behind the hedge to open fire as well.
The lorry, as it approached, had slowed down, apparently to investigate what had happened to the first one. But as soon as John had fired his shot, it increased speed again and had passed Michael and his two friends before they could take proper aim. They sent a few bullets after it but the lorry disappeared over the hill without suffering any damage. The corporal who had stayed on the road side of the hedge took the opportunity to make a run for it, but Michael shouted at him to stand and fired a shot in the air and the man promptly stopped, turned round and with his hands up, walked dutifully back.
The Column’s plan of retreat included a first assembly point two fields away from the road behind a high bank on either side of an open gate. Michael, with his prisoner, was the last one to arrive.
“What the hell do you have there,” shouted John Fitzpatrick angrily when he noticed the Corporal.
“A prisoner”, replied Michael, surprised at John's outburst.
“And what do you propose to do with him?”
“Take him with us of course.”
John Fitzpatrick nearly exploded with rage at Michael's stupidity to burden their escape with a prisoner, but then his pragmatism told him that a prisoner was bad enough but a row on top of it would be worse, and he controlled himself.
“We will sort him out later,” he said tensely, “Let's move as fast as we can. The second lorry will raise the alarm in Midleton and we must be away from the main road before the patrols come out,” and addressing himself more in particular to the prisoner, “You keep up with us. If you stay behind you are a dead man.”
They continued their march, sometimes walking, sometimes running. They were ail fit and healthy and they covered the mile long cross-country track to the farm in about ten minutes. Only the prisoner had great difficulty in keeping up. He fell once and Michael had to stop, so as not to lose sight of him. The man struggled on, arriving utterly exhausted in the farmyard.
They had planned to leave the farm in small groups but John Fitzpatrick considered that they could not afford to lose any time now that the Midleton barracks would have been appraised of the ambush. Instead he decided they should take the risk of cycling together as a group, with rifles at the ready, until they were well into the countryside. The prisoner, however, was an acute problem. They could not leave him behind. It would bring ruin if not death to the owner of the farm. There was no bicycle available for him and even if there was, he would be too exhausted to push it.
John silently cursed his bad luck. Michael watched his friend's face and began to realise that he had made an error.
“I will take care of him,” he offered. “He can stand behind me on the steps with somebody riding behind to watch him.”
It was the only solution. John rifle-prodded the poor man, who was still gasping for breath hanging over a timber fence, saying, “Get up now. We are moving. Get behind him on the bicycle. Don't fall off. We cannot waste any time.”
The corporal dragged himself over to Michael Leahy's bicycle. Then John suddenly noticed something and with a hint of panic in his voice shouted, “Hey, you were wearing a cap. Where is it? What have you done with it?”
They all stopped and looked at John's angry face.
“I... I... lost it,” stammered the corporal.
“Where the Hell did you lose it?”
“Somewhere in the fields.”
It was one of John's qualities that he could weigh up a difficult situation quickly and take a decision.
“We'll go on,” he said curtly. “We can't afford to lose time looking for it. Come on.”
They left, quickly and nervously, trying to hide their fear from each other. Michael had the Englishman leaning heavily on his shoulders with his short fast breathing whistling in his ears. At first he barely noticed the extra load, but John Fitzpatrick had set a fast pace and after about two miles when they reached the main Midleton-Fermoy road, Michael was getting tired.
They had to follow the main road for about a quarter of a mile in the Midleton direction before they could turn left and disappear into the maze of country roads and lanes that stretch between Midleton and the River Bride. It was half an hour after the attack. John reckoned that the alarm had by now been raised in Midleton, but it was going to be be another ten or fifteen minutes before patrols would reach where they were now on the main road.
They raced down the road as fast as they could and without meeting anyone reached the point where they could turn left into the country. It was now half past six and another hour before it would be fully dark. They had met a few people earlier who had looked in amazement at this group of lads carrying rifles, cycling hard. John however trusted they would have understood what was going on and would keep their mouths shut. Yet, the situation was far from safe.
The country road on which they now were rose steeply and they had to dismount and walk. Although it was not warm, Michael was sweating heavily. He never had been much of an athlete. Moreover he had missed the hardship of the campaign in the Knockmealdowns; so now needed all his strength and willpower to keep up. The prisoner appeared to be even more exhausted. John noticed the two struggling uphill and began to realise that things could not continue much longer in this manner, without the whole group becoming endangered. When they were on the flat again, he therefore offered to take the prisoner on his bicycle for a while.
At the first fork in the road, John ordered a halt.
“We are through the worst of it,” he said more to cheer up their sagging spirits than anything else.
“We will wrap up our rifles here and tie them to the crossbar. Put your ammunition belts away and try to look like ordinary country lads. I am taking the left here with two others and our prisoner. The rest of you go right and at the next cross, you split again and then again until you are in groups of two or three. Keep moving, until you have covered a good distance and until it is fully dark. We will meet again at the Bride at the usual place. Anyone who is not there by eleven o'clock will have to look after himself.”
“Should I not take the Brit?” said Michael Leahy without much conviction, but John shook his head, and then they parted company. The light was beginning to fade. John Fitzpatrick with his two men and the prisoner cycled on for about another mile and then he asked them all to stop near a gate at the left side of the road. They dismounted and John asked one of the other lads to hold his bicycle.
He turned to the prisoner and kindly said to him, “I am sorry, I can't take you any further. I must now tie your hands behind your back and blindfold you. We will walk together and I will leave you at a place where you will find some shelter for the night. Tomorrow, you can try getting back to Midleton.”
The corporal nodded, “Sure, I will manage that.”
They walked into the field; the corporal ahead with John two paces behind. The other lads stayed on the road. After they had walked about fifty yards, John Fitzpatrick drew a revolver from under his coat and calmly fired a bullet into the back of the corporal's skull. The man stumbled and fell forward like a log. John bent over him, pointing the revolver again at the head, but a second shot was not necessary. John walked back to the road and, like a good farmer's son, closed the gate behind him. To his two friends on the road he simply said, “There was no other way. If he would ever get back to the barracks to tell his story, they would kill Jack Verling and burn his farm. When we meet the others don't say anything. It would upset Michael Leahy.”
They mounted their bikes.
“At least the poor fellow never knew what hit him.” John said it more to himself than to the others.
They cycled on in the gathering darkness, silent, and with the death of a man on their conscience.
Captain Young was having his usual drink before dinner when news of the attack came in. The reaction of all the officers present in the mess was one of disbelief, and most of them were inclined to dismiss the story as just another rumour that would prove to be false. But Young knew better than the others how unsuccessful they really had been in tracking down the men of what was, on paper at least, “The Midleton Battalion of the IRA”.
He went to the Duty Room where the Sergeant showed him the telegram that had come in from Midleton. The Duty Officer had gone off to assemble whatever men and vehicles were immediately available to send to the scene of the ambush. It all seemed real enough to Young, and he decided to forego his dinner and join the group that was going out; two lorries, twenty-four men, two sergeants and a lieutenant.
When they reached the ill-fated vehicle, it was almost dark. The second lorry that had brought up the van was still there, and a motorcar and a lorry from the Barracks in Midleton had also arrived and there were several police uniforms to be seen as well. Even Major McWhite was there. The dead soldier had been taken out of the crashed vehicle and laid down under a blanket on the floorboards of the Midleton lorry.
“Awful business,” said McWhite, recognising Captain Young. “There must have been several of them behind the hedge at the other side. There was a corporal with him in the cab but he is missing.”
“Do we know what happened?” asked Young.
“The best thing is to talk to the driver of the other lorry that came behind him. They should have travelled together but the driver said he had to stop to secure his load. It probably saved his life.”
After the soldier who had driven the second lorry had explained how he got through and what he had seen, Young and McWhite agreed that the attackers had probably fled cross country to the North. Young ordered the Midleton lorry with ten men to return as quickly as possible to Carrigtwohill and from there to follow the back road all the way to where it joined the Fermoy-Midleton main road. They drove as quickly as they could, but the gathering darkness made it difficult to distinguish anything, and when they arrived at the main road it was obvious that their efforts to cut off the retreat of the attackers had been in vain.
The next morning at daybreak, Captain Young was back at the scene, this time with fifty soldiers, to begin a thorough search. He had asked Sergeant Musgrave to send out some of his men and they arrived on bicycles, about half an hour later. They started to look at the ground behind the hedge from which the shots had been fired and then to go through the deserted cottage. It was not difficult to conclude that the men had spent some considerable time there, and the empty shells behind the hedge gave some idea of the numbers; anything from twelve to fifteen.
Young was by now convinced they had escaped cross-country. Soon they found footprints and the mark of a rifle butt in the mud near the gate where John Fitzpatrick had assembled his men after the attack. They went on through the fields, crossed the railway line and found more footprints at another gate until someone discovered the corporal's cap. It was on the straight line leading into Jack Verling's farmyard. Young immediately saw the significance of the find. He called the Lieutenant, and ordered him to collect the men and surround the farm.
“But don't go into the yard or the house until I tell you,” he added.
Together with one of the constables, Young walked ahead to the gate where it seemed the fugitives had entered the farmyard. He leaned over the gate without opening it, studying the ground and the buildings in front of him. The by now familiar footprints with the occasional mark of a rifle, could again clearly be seen. Otherwise, the place seemed deserted.
“If there is anyone hiding there we would have been shot by now,” he said, to the policeman.
Nevertheless they waited until the soldiers had taken up their position; then they opened the gate and went in. A short muddy pathway brought them to the yard. On one side of the yard was the house; on the other side were stables, a barn, a coach house and a hayshed. The irregular cobble stones of the yard were covered with old straw, cattle droppings and mud. Here and there, sometimes underneath the imprints of hoofs and boots, the tracks left by a number of bicycles were visible. They all converged on the main gate from where they went right handed up the road.
“Clear case, what?” Young said to the RIC man. “They had their bicycles parked here in the coach house, nicely out of sight. Coming back, they went up the road to the right. I guessed as much. Actually I went up that road last night until the cross but they had too much of a start on us.”
“I suppose we ought to see if there is anyone in the house, Sir,” said the policeman.
Jack Verling had seen the long spread out line of soldiers coming over the railway track. It worried him. He did not believe they could prove anything against him. After all the boys had left nothing suspicious behind; but just to keep on the safe side of any arguments, he had called his two sons and together they had taken off into the fields at the other side of the road, leaving the wife, his mother and a young daughter behind.
Mrs. Verling put up a brave face. How was she to know what friends of her husband or her sons came in and out of the place on bicycles or otherwise. It was none of her concern; she had to mind her own work and that left no time for idle chat with visitors. No, she did not know when her husband would come home. They had gone off to the town, and if the constable would care to look in the pubs there, he was sure to find them.
The policemen searched the house, the stables, the barn, the coach house and they even asked the soldiers to turn over what little hay was left in the shed, but nothing incriminating could be found. It was past three o'clock in the afternoon when they gave up. A party of six soldiers with a constable was left behind to await the return of the men and the rest returned to Cork. Young however decided to have another look at the cross and the road beyond. He took the motorcar and the driver, leaving the Lieutenant to return in the lorry waiving protestations about his own safety away. “The motorcar moves too fast and anyway these people are very bad shots,” he said lightheartedly.
When he arrived at the main road, Young stopped, got out and surveyed the scene. It was a perfectly useless exercise. The attackers could have gone either way and even if you knew which way, it would not be of much help. He got in again, ordered the driver to turn right to Midleton and after a quarter mile left, up the hill. At almost five o'clock, the car pulled up in front of Donoghmore House. Miss Jennings came to the door and he asked politely and very correctly, if Major O'Neill would perhaps be good enough to receive him.
Everyone in Donoghmore House had heard about the shooting the evening before and Miss Jennings was unsure of what to do with a strange Army officer in uniform who suddenly appeared on the doorstep. The Major had not yet come home for tea, so she asked Julia.
“Show him into the dining room and ask him to wait until the Major comes home. Say that we expect him presently,” was Julia's advice.
Henry came in five minutes later. He had been surprised to see the motorcar and when washing his hands, he became annoyed that the military apparently assumed that he would know anything about yesterday's incident. When he recognised Captain Young, his annoyance subsided somewhat but still he felt cross when he asked,
“What can I do for you?”
“Well, you see,” began Young diffidently, “I understand .... or rather I heard that your daughter-in-law has gone to London and I was wondering would you be kind enough to let me have her address. I hope you don't think it improper of me to ask.”
Henry had not expected this at all. He looked in amazement at the other man and said, “No, she is still here. I expect her in for tea at any moment and you can ask her yourself,” and in an off-hand manner he added: “Would you care to join us for tea?”
It was offered in a way so as not to be accepted, but Young replied eagerly, “Yes, please. That is very kind of you. I started at five in the morning and have not had much to eat all day.”
Julia had of course found out that Captain Young was in the dining room and presently she came in pretending surprise.
“Captain Young would like to have your address in London,” said Henry as if he couldn't care less about Julia, Young or their addresses. “And could you ask Miss Jennings to set another place at the table? Captain Young says he's starved.”
Julia was embarrassed, both by Young's visit as well as by the way Henry was behaving, but she went out demurely saying only, “Yes father.”
When the table had been re-arranged, they sat down. Julia didn't say a word, nor did the others. Henry noticed that she was annoyed and he began to feel a little guilty. Young seemed non-plussed about it all.
“Beastly business, that incident yesterday,” said Henry vaguely.
It was more an effort to make amends for his earlier behaviour than any real interest in the subject.
“I was at it all day,” replied Young, eager to start some sort of a conversation. “The whole thing doesn't make any sense. They bring, with great effort, I would presume, ten or twelve riflemen in position and they then shoot up a lorry with bedding and kitchen gear. The driver is killed and they take the other fellow with them. It must be quite a burden to them dragging a prisoner along.”
“No hope of catching them I suppose,” said Henry cheerfully, hoping that that would end the subject.
“I wouldn't say that. We located the base from which they operated; a farm along the back road from Carrigtwohill.”
“Really?” Henry replied with a little more interest. “Where exactly? Do you know the man's name?”
“Verling; but our bird had flown when we got to the place.”
“I know the man; never much of a rebel I should say, but then you never know with these fellows. They get very worked up about Irish freedom and that sort of thing. But they mean no harm.”
“But killing a soldier is doing harm,” said Julia suddenly.
Henry looked at her with surprise. He had not expected any such contribution to the conversation from her, although if he had been a little less preoccupied, he would have known that she would not just sit there and keep quiet.
“Of course, of course,” he said hastily. “They shouldn't do that; probably didn't intend to. I bet the other fellow will turn up in the course of the day. They probably will leave him go in a country lane in the middle of nowhere.”
“Let's hope so,” said Young. “Anyway in another two weeks, I will be relieved of the problem. I am going back to England for some leave. Don't know what they will do with me thereafter. I might even retire and go back farming.”
“Whereabouts is your place?” asked Henry with obvious interest, after which the conversation drifted happily away from rebels and their problems.
When Young rose at last to take his leave, he still had not received an answer to his original request and hesitantly he reminded Henry.
“Oh,” replied Henry, “that is up to Julia. Ask her.”
Julia smiled and said, “I will write it on a piece of paper for you,” and on the way to the front door she slipped into the office and came out again with a folded piece of paper.
When the car had left, Henry asked, “How did he know you were going to London?”
“I have no idea.”
Henry's face looked puzzled and therefore she added, not without a little malice, “It was your idea that I should meet him.”
It was only the next morning that one of Henry’s farmhand found the dead corporal in the growing barley, and even that was a pure coincidence. The man had been sent out to check cattle in an adjoining field and had decided it would suit him better to return through the barley rather than over the road. His first reaction was one of fright; not of the dead man but fear of either being accused by the police of complicity or considered an informer by the lads. He sat down at the side of the road to ponder over the problem and then decided to have his lunch first. Fortified by the meal, he sat down again to think about it. At last the respect that country people have for the dead gained the upper hand and he went to the House to inform the boss of his discovery. Henry, however, had gone out, so Miss Jennings asked the man what was the matter.
“There is a dead soldier in the barley field along the road,” he said with as much conviction as he could muster.
“Go way, Sean. You don't think I would believe that now, do you?” replied Miss Jennings, jokingly.
“Tis true, Miss. He was shot with the hands tied behind him.”
Miss Jennings was still not sure what to believe, but felt that at least something ought to be done to check the story. She went into the yard and shouted: “Jimmy, Jimmy.” But there was no reply.
Julia had heard the commotion and came downstairs to ask what was the matter.
“Sean here says there is a dead soldier in a field and I want to send Jimmy along to find out, but he doesn't seem to be in the yard.”
Julia remembered the missing corporal that Captain Young had talked about the day before and she became pale. “I will go with him,” she said immediately.
“Oh no, Mrs. O'Neill,” objected Miss Jennings, “You cannot do that. I will find another man to go with him or otherwise I will go myself.”
But Julia waived her protests away saying: “Come Sean, show me where it is.”
When they passed through the gate they could see the body stretched out in the distance. She got a sickening feeling and stopped. She suddenly didn't want to go on. She had established that the man was speaking the truth. Why go any further, she said to herself. Sean looked at her with curiosity. He didn't quite understand her reluctance to go on.
“There he is,” he said as if to take away any remaining doubts that the lady might have about his story.
Julia closed her eyes, collected all her young courage and with determination and eyes wide open walked on. The soldier was lying face down on the soft earth, with the young shoots of the barley coming up out of the ground around him. One of his legs was twisted under the other, his hands were tied behind his back, and his head was one huge swarm of flies. Only a tuft of fair hair was visible beyond the mass of buzzing insects.
“He was shot through the head,” said Sean helpfully.
“Yes, I can see that,” was Julia’s curt reply “Don't touch him. We must get the police.” The effort to speak helped to suppress the convulsions that were running through her body.
Sean nodded. He then took off his cap, went down on one knee, made the sign of the cross and said a prayer. Julia had been about to turn away from the ugly scene but the simple way in which Sean reacted to the human misery in front of him touched her deeply. She folded her hands, closed her eyes and, standing erect, joined him in his prayer.
It is probably not possible to say how much solace the soul of the dead soldier derived from this delayed Irish devotion, but Julia was greatly comforted by the experience.
“We must get a white sheet from the house and put it over him,” she said as they were walking away.
On the road they met Henry. Someone had at last found him and he had hurried to the spot, more perhaps to protect Julia from the grim picture of death that she might encounter than out of curiosity to see for himself what actually had happened. Julia spoke a few words of explanation and then they all walked back again to the field.
“I am sure it is the corporal that Captain Young said was missing,” she whispered when looking again at the body.
Henry had seen too many dead soldiers during his four years of war to be moved by the sight of another one. Still he shook his head sadly saying, “Why do they do a thing like that?”
Back at the house, there was great commotion. Everyone had abandoned his work and there was an animated discussion going on in the yard. Even Miss Jennings was there, but she went quickly inside when she saw Henry, Sean and Julia approaching. As soon as they reached the back yard, Henry shouted to Jimmy to put the cob before the trap, and Julia went looking for Miss Jennings to ask her to get a white sheet.
Sean, conscious of the importance that befalls those who have valuable information began to explain the details of the gruesome find to the assembled crowd, and he felt his importance further enhanced when Julia asked him to come with them to cover the body with a decent sheet. Together the threesome drove back to the field where Sean and Julia did their work of mercy, burdening the sheets with stones at the edges so that it would not blow away,
While Henry went on to Midleton to inform the police, Julia and Sean returned home a second time on foot, to find everyone still patiently waiting in the yard for further news from Sean. Julia went into the house, but the men talked for another half hour and since it would not be proper to work on the day a body had been found on the farm, they all went home, and some, having felt an irresistible urge to share their concern with friends and neighbours, did not arrive at their cottage until the pub in Lisgoold had closed.
Presently, Henry arrived back having left two constables with the body. The military in Midleton and in Cork had been informed as well and were on their way. Henry and Julia were again just about to sit down to tea when Captain Young knocked at the front door.
“I had not expected to visit you again so soon,” he said apologetically, “and certainly not under such dreadful circumstances. I am sorry our man was found on your land, but must bother you with a few questions; just routine, you know. The file must have a record that I spoke to the landowner.”
“That's alright,” replied Henry. “I understand, but we may as well have our tea in the meantime. Will you join us?”
They told him how Sean Power had found the body and what happened afterwards.
“Do you think they chose your land on purpose?” asked Young.
It was a thought that had not entered their minds at all.
“No, why should they?”
“Well, to embarrass you. Or to intimidate you. You are a retired officer; I mean you are the sort of person that would be unlikely to have much sympathy with these rebels.”
The logic of the argument escaped Henry and he said so.
“But why then,” continued Young, “would they drag the poor devil along for a distance of some five miles? They were in a hurry to get away and they had their escape well planned. Why take all that trouble and then shoot him in your field? He was not just shot in a fight; he was executed. If they wanted to kill him it would have been simpler to shoot him while he was trying to get out of the crashed lorry.”
Julia had listened with growing disquiet. The colour had left her face and in a frightened voice she exclaimed, “Oh, what an absolute horrible thought. Why would they do such a thing? What have we ever done to them?”
“What did the corporal ever do to them?” replied Young sarcastically.
But Henry intervened, “Would you ever stop this nonsense,” he said sternly. “It is pure coincidence that he was found here. There are scores of reasons why they took him along first and then had to change their minds. These lads may be cunning, but they are not wicked or devious.”
Silence fell over the table after this outburst. Young was embarrassed for having upset Julia. To change the subject he said, “That farmer along the back road – Verling is his name – he was definitely involved in it. He and his two sons have disappeared, probably together with the others.”
“I would not be so sure about that,” replied Henry. “A man with a farm to look after is unlikely to join a dangerous and futile expedition like this one. If the gang used his farm, it is probably because he felt unable to refuse their request and not because he wished to get involved.”
“But it would be easy to say no,” said Young.
But Henry shook his head saying: “The trouble is that you and your colleagues don't understand the country. It is different from England, you know.”
“Well, whether he was an accomplice or was forced is not going to make any difference to him either way. Under the new regulations, his farm can be destroyed and quite frankly, this morning, the Colonel said he might propose it to the GOC. I think the dead corporal you found today will now clinch the matter.”
“You mean burn the farm down?” asked Henry incredulously, and Young nodded.
“That is now the last thing you must do,” said Henry emphasising each word as he spoke. “Can't you see that it is wrong. You want to beat these rebels. That is what we all want. If you burn Verling's farm, Verling will become a martyr, quite possibly an innocent one. And so, by implication, will the fellows who carried out the raid. Everyone will forget the driver who was shot and the corporal who was murdered. All that will remain in the memory of the people is the injustice done to a decent man.”
Young shrugged his shoulders. “It won't be my decision. I have little influence over it.”
“If you want to do your job properly try to convince them there in Cork not to burn Verling's farm. I will go to Cork if they are prepared to listen to me. I would like to. I have to live with the results of what you people may plan to do. You, on the other hand, can go back to England after a month or whenever; it doesn't matter to you what happens afterwards.”
Young did not reply. He would be back in England in a few weeks time, relieved of the problems which he didn't understand and of the conflict between the simple, military logic and the obvious sincere views of somebody like Henry O'Neill who knew the country so much better than he ever would. At last he said, more out of courtesy than out of conviction, “I will try.”
The next day, the last day of Julia's life in Ireland, the military set fire to Verling's farm. His wife, his mother and his daughter took whatever personal belongings they could carry and found shelter with neighbours. The news of the evil deed spread through the country even faster than the flames spread through the old house, the stables and the barn, and wherever the news came, in cottages and pubs, in the houses and shops of the country towns, in villages and on farms, a cry of anger went up. Memories of half-forgotten times, of injustices committed centuries ago, rekindled the latent hostility for a class and a culture that was not their own. Many a man from Midleton to Fermoy, and from Cork to Youghal who had been in doubt about the need of violent resistance against the English system now came solidly down on the side of the rebels.
Henry almost physically felt the wave of indignation sweeping like an avalanche through the country. What the Army had done filled him with shame; the same Army which he had served loyally in defence of this, his country.
Julia watched his sad, silent face as he listened in the yard to Jimmy bringing the latest news. She loved him and desperately wanted to help him, but how could she help in a sorrow that she did not comprehend. It was their last evening together. She tried to reach out to him with her love but all her efforts were in vain. Until in the end she cried out, “Let us go away from this dreadful country.”
“Yes,” he said in a toneless voice. “It is the only thing left.”
But his thoughts were away wandering through the hills and glens, over the soft green meadows and away to the woods under the distant hazy sky of Ireland, his beloved country, torn asunder again by the prejudices borne out of her violent, sorrowful past.
15. LONDON TOWN
She woke up to the familiar sounds of the unhurried activities of a Belgravia street in the early hours of the day. The morning light of London came filtering through the drawn curtains of the bedroom. The house was silent except for the occasional shuffle of the footsteps of one of the servants below and the discreet ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece opposite the bed.
Julia looked round the room. It was all as it used to be, two-and-a-half years ago; the large wardrobe, the mahogany dressing table with its gilt edged mirror given to her by her parents on the occasion of her seventeenth birthday, and the little rosewood bureau, a wedding present from her aunt that she somehow had never managed to get to Ireland.
She had been home now for a week. Ireland, Donoghmore House and her farewell to Henry had already begun to blur into a faraway past, separated from this room, with its silent strip of sunlight across the flower patterns on the wallpaper, by the discomfort of a voyage in a rolling and heaving ship followed by an endless rail journey, and then long days of restfulness and oblivion.
She lay still, taking in the peace of the early morning as if woken up from a deep dream; a dream of death and forbidden love, in a strange and cruel country far away and beyond reach now. Feelings of thankfulness for having returned to her own familiar homeland, safe and secure, and melancholy sadness about what might have been, kept a sedate step in her mind.
Life here was predictable. Presently the maid would come in with morning tea and open the curtains; that would mean it was a quarter past eight. After that she would get up and dress to be down for breakfast at exactly nine because her father had to leave at nine-thirty for his office in the city – Sedgwick, Hamilton and Stokes - Bankers. And ten minutes before father left, little John would be brought in to have his morning conversation with his grandfather. Sitting on his grandfather's knee, the child would listen with a grave face to the old man's watch, waiting patiently until grandfather pressed the knob to repeat the chime of nine. His little face would beam and with his tiny finger in the air, he would say, “Hear, hear.”
Julia’s mother had engaged a nanny especially for her stay. It had been inconceivable to her that Julia could do her shopping and meet her friends and relations without someone to look after the child. Mrs Stokes had, against all advice, come to the station to meet her and had been horrified to find her daughter, tired with a crying child and three suitcases but without a servant, coming off the train. Julia had excused herself by pointing out that an Irish kitchenmaid would not have been of much use either on the journey or in a London house; so, with formidable energy, mother had located and engaged a suitable person the next day.
After breakfast, Julia would take little John out, sometimes leaving nanny at home and pushing the perambulator herself until they had crossed Knightsbridge into Hyde Park where John was allowed to practice his walking while she would sit, or if it was too cold, she walk slowly up and down the path watching the child. But often her eyes would drift away to look at the Household Cavalry exercising their horses, bringing memories of riding out in the morning, long, long ago when she was another person living another life.
John did not pay much attention to horses. He was fascinated by other children of his own age. He had after all, never met any before. It amused Julia; she encouraged him to play with them as her appreciation grew of wat the child had perhaps already missed in his short life.
Apart from the unbreached difference of opinion about the necessity of a nanny, the old relationship between mother and daughter had also quickly re-established itself, and in the afternoon, Julia would go out with her mother, shopping and to have tea with friends. They were mostly ladies of mother's age purring like Cheshire cats over their tea and offering, from the superiority of their mature ages, a bewildering assortment of advice to Julia.
In the evening father would, at times, organise a visit to a theatre saying that she should take advantage of her stay in London. Father was fond of the theatre himself and Julia knew that her presence gave him the encouragement he needed to go out and see the plays that he had wanted to see himself for quite some time. She shared his interest in drama and acting and loved to talk to him about each play they watched.
Mother, who dutifully always also came out, was more interested in the real world than in the fiction of the stage. During the entre-acts she would hunt out friends and acquaintances to introduce to Julia; people who invariably poured their sympathy out over “this poor unfortunate girl, widowed almost before she got married and forced to live in that backward country”. It only barely annoyed her, content as she was to slip back into the role that was being thrust back upon her: the role of the innocent daughter of a London family of standing, rescued, at least temporarily, from her distress.
It was a quiet, predictable and almost happy life until the morning of the eighth day when the postman delivered a letter. Julia was still at the breakfast table. Father had left, little John had been taken upstairs again to be dressed for his daily outing, and she was talking with her mother about the people that had been to dinner the previous evening, when the maid brought the letter in. The handwriting on the envelope was familiar.
She opened it and blushed slightly. She knew it came from Paul Young even before she started to read.
Dear Mrs O'Neill,
I will arrive in London on 28th and do hope very much that you will allow me to call on you in the afternoon. I hope you had a safe passage and that you are enjoying your stay...
“I hope it is good news,” said her mother, anxious to find out what the letter was about. Julia folded the paper again and placed it back in the envelope so as to demonstrate that she did not wish to talk about it.
“Oh it is from an acquaintance in Ireland,” she replied evasively, but knowing her mother would not be distracted so easily and wishing to avoid the impression of having secrets, she added, “He will be in London next week and hopes to call on us.”
“Who is he?” asked her mother warming up to what might be an interesting story, “I mean, is he the sort of gentleman that we can receive; what is his name and.…“ but Julia cut her short.
“Don't worry Mother, he is an officer, Captain Young, an acquaintance of my father-in-law and perfectly suitable for your drawing room.”
“I am sorry,” replied her mother somewhat irritated. “I only wanted to know whether you considered him acceptable as a visitor,” and apologetically, if not quite truthfully, she added. “I don't want to pry into your affairs.”
And with that, the awkward conversation ended, for the time being at least.
Later, when she was in the park with little John, it occurred to her that she could have refused to receive him and she wondered why she had rejected that idea as being out of the question. It was still possible to refuse. Admittedly it was impossible to reply to the letter. A reply would not reach him in time; but she could go out on that afternoon and ask the maid to say that she regretted that she could not see him. Why did she not want to do this? Why indeed did it not even occur to her as a possibility when her mother was asking her little questions?
She watched little John trying to attract, without success, the attention of a girl a few months older than himself. The little girl kept turning her back on him seemingly afraid that Johnny would take her doll away from her.
“Children do not try to hide their feelings,” she said to herself, “Grown-up people are more complicated. They show what they do not feel and hide their true feelings. At times they don't even know whether they are trying to hide something from themselves, or are pretending something else for others.”
After considering a few further variations of these thoughts, she felt convinced that she only wanted to be courteous to a gentleman who had always been courteous to her.
Captain Young duly appeared at four p.m. at the front door of Mr & Mrs Stokes’ house carrying a large bunch of flowers. He was, with the usual ceremonies, admitted to the drawing room. There was, in Mrs Stokes’ mind, no doubt whatsoever about his intentions; only a doubt about his suitability. After all, in these modern times, the fact that the young man was an army officer did not at all mean that he was also a gentleman, and even less that he had sufficient means. However, after the flowers had been suitably admired and the weather discussed, his manner and his speech reassured Mrs Stokes to the extent that she was prepared to consider the proposition further.
“Did you enjoy your stay in Ireland?” she asked, carefully trying to hide her anxiety to find out more about his background.
Paul Young was somewhat confused by the question and did not know immediately what reply to give. Julia noticed his hesitation and came to the rescue.
“I had not expected you would be in London so soon,” she said.
Young was relieved to have an easier question to answer and rejoindered, “I only came off the train this morning.”
“You have not been home yet?” asked Julia with surprise.
“No, I have one or two things to do in London first. I hope to go home tomorrow.”
“Oh, you are not living in London,” Mrs Stokes words clearly conveyed the message that further explanation on his domicile was desirable and, dutifully, Paul Young added, “No, my parents live in the country; in Oxfordshire, close to the Gloucestershire border, about two miles north of the road to Cheltenham.”
“Yes,” said Julia cheerfully, “Captain Young’s father is a farmer.”
Mrs Stokes looked at her daughter with reproach. She found the remark embarrassing for the captain, and to put things right, she said to Julia, “My dear, living in the country and owning land does not make one a farmer, don't you agree Captain.”
“Yes, certainly I agree, but my father is a sort of a farmer,” replied Young, looking in bewilderment from mother to daughter.
“Quite so,” said Mrs Stokes drily.
Then the maid brought the tea in. It took fortunately a little while until the cups and the saucers, the scones, the spoons, and the plates were sorted out, but when Mrs Stokes finally poured the tea, she continued her enquiries with a less pointed “Do you like living in the country?”
“Yes I do. And I like Ireland as a country. I think one could live there very happily if it was not for these unfortunate troubles.”
“Indeed, we have been very worried about Julia and we are grateful that she is safely home again.”
“You are exaggerating a little, mother,” said Julia. “There was nothing really to worry about. Nobody was ever unfriendly to me. We lived as if the whole thing had nothing to do with us.”
Paul Young felt he should support her and added, “That is quite true. The Troubles, as they call it in the newspapers, are isolated incidents and they do not affect the life of ordinary people.”
“Will you be long in England?” asked Mrs Stokes. She was not very interested in the state of Ireland and much more in the background of this Captain Young.
“I have a month's leave and I don't know where I will be posted next; hopefully not back to Ireland.
Probably, they will leave me in England for the time being. In any event I will be back in London next week.”
Paul Young had now arrived at the question for which he had really come to see Julia. But with all his thirty years of age, his war experience in in fact three different countries and his struggle with Irish rebels, he was still shy to ask her if she would like to go out with him during his leave, wondering for on the one hand whether it was proper to ask a young widow, and on the other feeling afraid that she would refuse. On top of that, there was now a rather formidable mother to content with. It made him more hesitant and as shy as a boy starting prep school having to ask a favour from the matron.
Gathering up ail his courage he at last said boldly, “And I was wondering, with your mother's permission of course, would you care, I mean, would you allow me to take you to the theatre or something, I mean you may not like the theatre....”
It was considerably less fluent than he had wished or rehearsed, but the essential thing had been said. He smiled hopefully at Julia and her mother awaiting the reaction with trepidation. Mrs Stokes, however, had fully expected some sort of invitation. Indeed she would have been terribly disappointed if none had been forthcoming. She had her answer ready and without waiting for Julia she said, “That is very nice of you to ask Captain Young. Actually we visit the theatre frequently. My husband is very fond of a good play and so is Julia. If you are interested as well, would you care to join us next Tuesday?”
It was not what Paul Young had hoped to achieve but he had no option but to accept.
Julia loved her mother, and since her return to London, she had been happy to submit to her decisiveness and to have her life regulated by the practice and custom of the parental home as determined by her. She had, in fact, not even noticed the constraints that were upon her, but as Captain Young said his farewells, she was surprised by her becoming aware of them and of the problems it might pose.
Julia was not annoyed with her mother, so much as disappointed to find that she was not as free as she had believed herself to be. She tried to explain it to her mother, gently, and with some slight embarrassment.
“But you see Mama, I am no longer eighteen years old. I am a widow and I have a child. I can look after myself. I mean, if I want to meet Captain Young or go out with him I think I should tell him that myself.”
“But can't you see that the man wants to propose to you!” exclaimed Mrs Stokes. “I should find out whether he is an acceptable party. I have only your interest at heart.”
“Yes mother, I am quite able to see that for myself. I am in fact trying to discourage him, because if he proposes, I won't accept and I don't want to hurt his feelings.”
“But why should you refuse,” replied Mrs Stokes with surprise. “You can't remain on your own for the rest of your life. At least I wouldn't like to see it. You are still so young and we want to see you happy.”
“It is very sweet of you to care so much about me, but I don't want to remarry.”
Julia was moved by her mother's concern and just to make it appear a little less definite she added, “Perhaps I am just not ready for it yet.”
“Well, there is nothing wrong with asking him to come with us to the theatre,” said Mrs Stokes a little defensively, but then couldn't help adding. “What does his father really do?”
“I don't know,” laughed Julia. “I have never met the man. Captain Young told me they have a farm. How much land it is and what he does with it, I don't know. But what does it matter? Captain Young is a nice person and he is pleasant company.”
“When you are my age, Julia, you will understand that it does matter,” replied Mrs Stokes.
Captain Young's knowledge of Shakespeare was rudimentary to say the least. He had arrived at the theatre well in time and had been waiting in the hall for almost half an hour, when the Stokes family finally arrived. Mrs Stokes greeted him warmly and introduced him to her husband. There were only a few minutes left before the curtain would go up and the civilities of the introduction gave him little to no time to speak to Julia. Nevertheless Young felt happy enough during the first act of Henry III, sitting in the box next to Julia and behind Mr & Mrs Stokes.
But during the interlude after the second act, he began to feel just a little helpless as Julia and her father continued to discuss the finer points of the atrocities committed by the Duke of Gloucester in his efforts to become King of England, and he opted instead to join Mrs Stokes in her hunt for friends and acquaintances. Mrs Stokes was delighted with her companion and introduced him to one and sundry as Captain Young, a friend of Julia, just returned from service in Ireland; indeed so delighted that she invited him for dinner the next evening.
When they had resumed their seats and the curtain was about to go up, Mrs Stokes said in a loud voice, but addressing nobody in particular, that she believed there was a time for listening to Shakespeare and a time to talk to other people about other things. Julia felt guilty for having neglected her friend. After the play had ended and they were leaving the theatre and out of earshot of her parents, partly perhaps to assuage her guilty feelings, she said to him, “If the weather is good, Paul, I usually go out for a morning walk in the park. If you happen to be in the neighbourhood say around eleven o'clock you will find me somewhere near the tearoom of the Serpentine.”
And with a little malice she added, “My mother does not take morning walks.”
Paul Young was much encouraged by this suggestion, and the next morning before Julia pushing her perambulator had even got close to the tearoom, she saw him coming from afar walking briskly along the lake, wearing a tweed sports suit and bowler hat, his walking cane swinging rhythmically to his step; a handsome man with the outward self-assurance of his class. He was eight years older than she was, yet, she considered him a boy, too innocent about life to be equal to her. She extended a smile and a hand to him which he kissed gallantly. He proposed to go into the restaurant but she shook her head.
“John doesn't like restaurants. He prefers the grass and other children,” and pointing to where the child was playing she added. “You do know John, don't you?”
He nodded, “I know of him, but I have never met him.”
“Then I will introduce you,” she said as they walked up to the child.
“John, I want you to meet Captain Young.”
Julia spoke slowly and somewhat gravely as befitted a solemn occasion. But John said, “Toot,Toot,” not taking the slightest notice and continuing his efforts to push his pram himself.
“Let him play,” said Young. “He is not in the mood for conversation. That happens sometimes with men,” and as they walked across to the seats along the path by the lakeside, he added thoughtfully, “It must be nice to have a son.”
Julia looked at him with surprise, “Yes, as a matter of fact it is.”
They sat down. It was a fine morning but cool; too cool to sit for any length of time. After a brief while they stood up again and walked slowly up and down the path keeping an eye on the child. Julia felt she owed him an apology for the previous evening.
“I am sorry if things worked out a bit differently from what I think you had intended, yesterday. You see, my mother believes that I am still the innocent girl that I was before I got married. To her my life in Ireland never really happened and I find it difficult to explain to her that I have changed. I am not sure even that I want to explain it.”
“I think she is very kind and it was awfully good of her to invite me. Yes, it is different from what I imagined when I came to see you, but I am honoured by your mother's hospitality. I really am.”
“I don't know what you think about me,” resumed Julia. “And it is none of my business, but please promise me one thing: do not talk about Ireland, not to anyone in London and most of all, not to my mother. Please leave mother in her belief about me.”
“I will believe what your mother believes about you unless you tell me to believe something different.”
She looked at him, trying to search out in his face what he really meant and her eyes met his. They were grey, trusting, loving eyes. The recognition frightened her and she turned her head away quickly.
“That is very sweet of you to say. Well then, I will accept the invitation you really wanted to extend to me before my mother got hold of you.”
“What would you like?” he asked happily.
“Let’s just go out for dinner and some dancing. I would love that; say Saturday night. That is the proper night for it, isn't it?”
“Certainly, I will make the arrangements,” and then with a slight worry in his voice, “You don't think that I should ask your mother or your father's permission?”
“No,” she said with determination. “Certainly not. I will tell them myself. But there is one other condition.”
“Tell me and I will be happy to fulfil it.”
“It is this: mother believes I should remarry and she can't help looking at each young man as a prospective candidate. You may have noticed it already.”
She smiled while she was saying it and looked sideways at him. He was obviously confused to the point of embarrassment by the remark and didn't know what to reply. It gave her the feeling that she remained master of the situation and she continued, “I want you to know that I have no intention of re-marrying. As long as you remember that, we can be good friends.”
“I understand,” he said simply, and then suddenly in his shy, half-embarrassed, boyish, cheerful way, added, “But I would like to be around when you change your mind.”
It was as good as a formal proposal. It took her by surprise and before she could help it she quipped, “Golly, mother was right after all.”
But she quickly regained control over herself and trying to be serious again she said, “You have broken your promise already. I assure you it will be a very long time before I change my mind, if ever I will.”
But he would not be dissuaded, “That's alright. I can wait.”
“It is very nice of you to say that, Paul, although also a bit bold,” was her riposte, but she was flattered by his insistence and by now fascinated with the game they were playing.
Recklessy she pursued it, “Moreover it is very unwise. I am perhaps not as innocent as people believe and not as suitable a partner as you think.”
“It doesn't matter to me,” he said simply.
“I don't think you understand.” It now seemed her turn to insist. “One of the reasons I came back to London was what people in Cork were saying about me. I suppose you are aware of the gossip.”
“I don't pay any attention to gossip,” he said stubbornly.
“But most people do; in Cork as well as in London. One cannot ignore it,” she persisted.
“It doesn't matter to me. I will believe what you tell me. If you say it is gossip, then I will ignore it. If you say it is not, well, obviously then it is not. But either way it does not make any difference. I still would like to be there when you decide to re-marry.”
“Then you do believe that what they say about me could be true.”
She said it more to herself perhaps than as a question to him. But he replied to it by saying:
“That is not a fair question to ask.”
She suddenly realised that she had played the game beyond the limits of caution, that she had imprudently exposed herself and had unnecessarily hurt a friend for whom she should only have admiration,
“I'm sorry, Paul, I went too far,” she said softly, “Please forget what I said.”
She took his arm and pressed it. “If I ever change my mind, you will be the first to know. But I don't think I will.”
16. INTERCESSIONS
Henry’s first day without Julia was a Sunday and a Protestant Sunday is, by any standard, a bad day to start a lonely life. He missed her at the breakfast table and again when driving to Church with only Miss Jennings as company. The dear woman had of course noticed his depressed mood and underway tried to distract him with useless conversation about the family affairs of certain Midleton shopkeepers. But he hardly replied and she soon gave up.
It would be fair to say that religion had never been a great problem to Henry O'Neill. He went to Church every Sunday because he had always done so, like his father and his grandfather before him. In his schooldays he had been properly indoctrinated and such things as the Apostles' Creed and the thirty-nine Articles of Religion had been explained to him in detail. In school he had taken these things for granted, just like like Rugby Football and Latin. And in later life he had never questioned the ancient foundations of the Anglican faith; partly because it had never occurred to him to do so; partly also because he did not quite remember what they were.
This is not to say that he disliked divine service. Singing was always an uplifting pleasure, and sitting through the rest of Morning Prayer with your thoughts wandering all over the place and never quite concentrating on what was going on in the choir or being said from the pulpit was a relaxing and contemplative experience, if at times a little boring.
However, the last few months, a slight problem had arisen. It was caused by the fact that his wandering thoughts sometimes hovered around the question how one was to reconcile the beliefs, customs and rules of the Church with the sort or relationship he had developed with Julia. He had always vaguely felt that the whole thing was unfair on Julia but only in the sense that a young girl should not be tied to an impossible affair with a much older man.
But as long as she seemed to love and desire him, perhaps just as much he her, it had been easy to dismiss such thoughts from his mind. Except this lonely morning, when his wandering thoughts suddenly stopped in front of the question of good and evil. From these they rapidly moved on to the idea that their affair was sinful in the eyes of God, and, more alarmingly, in the eyes of his friends and relations.
When he left the church, the Rector asked innocently whether there was anything wrong with Julia.
“No,” he replied curtly, “She has gone to her parents in London for a few weeks.”
“Oh, how nice for her. I hope she will enjoy it,” exclaimed the Rector with badly concealed satisfaction. He could as well have said, “Good, I hope that puts an end to you carrying on with her.”
Henry looked at him whimsically and wanted to say. “You are not very good at hiding your feelings,” but of course he behaved himself and only allowed an, “I am sure she will,” after which he made to walk on, but the Rector was now in an expansive mood, quite prepared to continue the conversation.
“What an awful thing to happen to you last week, Henry; finding a murdered soldier on your land.”
“Yes, it was pretty awful, especially for the soldier.”
“I would be careful if I were you. It may be more than a coincidence that it was your land. These fellows are getting worse by the day.”
“Don't worry, I can look after myself,” after which Henry turned away and moved on.
He ate his Sunday lunch feeling like a hermit; although, as he had to admit to himself, a rather pompous one, sitting alone at the large dining table and being elaborately served by Miss Jennings. It was the first time he had eaten Sunday lunch alone since his return from France. It reminded him how much Julia had filled the house with her presence.
France had been lonely too, but in a different way. You missed home and your wife very much. But at least you had your meals in the company of others and during the day there was always someone to talk to. He had adjusted himself quite quickly to military life in France; so, why should he not be able to adjust to his new situation; it was, after all, only temporary, just like life in France had been temporary. Hopefully, this time, it would not last as long as the war had.
It seemed obvious though that Julia would never come back to Donoghmore House. Even if she wanted, how could she? And how could they possibly ever resume living together like they had done the last six months? It was a miracle it had lasted like it had.
He had bought a Sunday paper in Midleton and after lunch went up to his room to read. Soon he was absorbed in reports about the confused battles being fought in Russia between Poles, Bolsheviks, Whites and other nebulous groups. But after half an hour, his thoughts began to drift away again to Julia and how she would by now have arrived in London. Would she readily adjust again to life in London, and forget Ireland and her lover? What would she tell her parents when it became apparent that she would not return to Ireland? Even if he sold the farm now within the next few weeks it would take months, perhaps even a year, before he had found a place in the Argentine where she could join him. And when he had found a place, how was she going to slip out of her parents’ home, with child and luggage, without saying where she was going? More importantly, would she still be prepared to do it?
When he could not stand the loneliness of these afternoon ruminations about the uncertainties of the future any longer, he went downstairs and out into the yard. Not wishing to disturb Jimmy on his free Sunday afternoon, he put the cob to the gig himself and drove out to the road. He had no plan to go anywhere in particular. It was too early for Evening Prayer; besides, he hardly ever went to Church in the afternoon. Eventually he decided to go and see the farm that had been burned down by the soldiers the day before yesterday.
He arrived at Verling’s place to find a large number of other people there, all staring at the sorry sight of a few blackened stone walls in a heap of rubble. There were three men rather hopelessly digging away in the ruins. He got out and walked into the yard.
“They have not left very much,” he said to one of the men who was digging.
The man looked suspiciously at this well-dressed gentleman with his polished English accent who he did not know, and finally said evasively, “I would say not.”
But another of the three men, who had recognised Henry was a little more forthcoming, “We are trying to find anything of use that could be left in the rubble so as to return it to Mrs Verling. It is very hard on the woman.”
“It is indeed,” agreed Henry. “Especially with her husband gone.”
“Tis true, and you could not blame the man; he would only be arrested.”
“Do you know where I can find Mrs Verling?” asked Henry.
“She is with John Higgins, up the road near Carrigtwohill.”
“Indeed, but where exactly is his place?”
“Well now, if you follow the road, it is the last farm on the left before you come to the railway bridge.”
When Henry got there he asked a man, who was feeding hay to two stabled horses, for Mrs Verling, and presently she came out to the door.
Henry introduced himself, “I am O'Neill from Donoghmore House. I know your husband. I just called to see if there is anything I can do.”
“Tis nice of you to ask Major, but to tell you the truth, I don't know what anyone can do. The neighbour looks after the cattle and the grass and the barley is growing without our help. With my husband gone, tis difficult to know what to do. I am grateful for having a roof over my head.”
“I am sorry for what happened to you. If you need any help we will be glad to give it. And I hope your husband is safe.”
“I pray to God he is. Though I have not heard from him since that dreadful day. Whatever he may have done, I am sure he had no hand or part in killing the soldier on your land.”
“I am certain he had not.”
He went back through Carrigtwohill and up the main road to Midleton. The crashed lorry was still there. He stopped and joined the large crowd of Sunday afternoon walkers and cyclists who, driven by curiosity, the fine weather or perhaps like Henry, by boredom and loneliness, had gathered around to find out what happened or to discuss the more grisly details of the affair.
“I suppose I must be grateful for not having a crowd in the field where the unfortunate corporal was found,” he said to himself and then he drove home.
Back home, the evening was quickly becoming the worst part of his Sunday. All he could do was to read a paper or a book, and think. Think about loneliness, about his dear wife, his son killed in the war, his father shot on his own doorstep and about a strange girl who had borne his grandchild and shared, for a short while, her own loneliness with his. But she was gone now as well, driven away by a society that would not allow them to be together. If he would ever see her again it would be in a society to which he did not belong and in a country that was not his own.
And it would have continued a miserable evening but for the priest. It was only just past seven o'clock when the man knocked at the front door and asked to speak to Major O'Neill. Miss Jennings showed him into the drawing room and Henry came down to meet him, wondering very much what reason a priest could have to visit Donoghmore House on a Sunday evening. The priest was in his middle thirties, with a pleasant if somewhat sad face. Henry could not remember having seen him before.
“What can I do for you?” asked Henry politely but somewhat stiffly.
“I am Father O'Brien, a curate in Carrigtwohill. I took the liberty to call on you in connection with Mrs Verling. You went to see her this afternoon.”
The priest spoke with the smoothness of a well-educated man and his accent indicated a northern origin.
“Excuse me for asking,” interrupted Henry, “But have you been in Carrigtwohill long?”
The priest smiled, understanding perfectly well that Henry wanted a little more information and he was quite prepared to give it.
“I am originally from Newry. I have worked mostly in the North and quite some time in Belfast. I was for a while in the office of the Archbishop in Dublin. This is my first parish in the South and I came here only three months ago.”
“Ah, Cork is new to you,” said Henry with a faint smile. “I know your parish priest Father Ahern well. Did he ask you to visit me?”
“No, I am here on my own account and of course on account of Mrs Verling. You see, we have an organisation whose aim it is to help people like Mrs Verling.”
“Is that a charitable organisation within the parish?” asked Henry.
“No, not exactly. It is much larger than the parish. It has in fact nothing to do with the Church. You see, it tries to raise funds....”
Father O'Brien, notwithstanding the smooth self-assurance with which he had presented himself, became a little uneasy. Henry, to avoid a possible misunderstanding, felt he should perhaps explain to a man not familiar with local custom, why he had visited Mrs Verling.
“I went to see Mrs Verling because I know her husband. We, farmers in this part of the country, nearly all know each other and if we don't, we know of each other. It is an old tradition on the land that you help each other. It is something which is very different from charity or from giving money. That would be an insult. Help is something that you give today, and tomorrow you could receive. It takes the form of doing a job or sending your own man out to help in an unexpected situation. Mrs Verling has cattle and horses, and a growing crop, that all needs looking after, and she has now no husband or sons to do it.”
“I am aware of it,” replied the priest. “And it is wonderful to see how her neighbours have rallied round to help her. But my scheme is somewhat different. It is indeed about money. It is to help Mrs Verling and people like her, but also for more general expenditure.”
“I would not refuse to contribute to a fund to help the Verlings. After all, their house and yard has to be rebuilt.”
“That would be very nice of you. But there is a more general and, if I may say so, a better way of helping, you see,” and again O'Brien showed some hesitation, “A loan is being issued and to subscribe to the loan is the best way of helping.”
“And who is issuing this loan?” asked Henry with surprise.
“The Republican Government,” said Father O'Brien, smiling disarmingly.
Henry had thought he was quite prepared for an unusual request. The priest's visit was unusual in itself and his words had betrayed that he had more than Mrs Verling's misfortune on his mind. But this request was beyond all expectation.
“What? You ask me to provide money for fellows to shoot at the police and British soldiers. You know that a corporal was shot on my land and you ask me to support the man who did it?”
Henry was more amazed than that he was angry. He even considered the possibility that he had misunderstood the priest. But the priest went on, seemingly no longer hesitant about what he had to say and almost as if he had expected the outburst.
“I know all about it. That is to say, I know who found him and that he was shot with his hands tied on his back. He was killed – executed if you like – for no other reason than that he was in the British Army. It is very regrettable. Not only regrettable but wrong and no words of mine can justify it. But the money is not for the military campaign. Dail Eireann represents the people of Ireland. It needs money to carry out its work. In large areas of the country the old administration has ceased to function and the new Irish Government must take over.”
Although Father O'Brien was probably sharing this information only in a wish to explain his cause, the effect was only to puzzle Henry even more. But the priest seemed such a nice person and it was so obvious that he considered his request entirely reasonable that Henry was persuaded to continue the exchange, perplexing though it was, a little further.
“I think you are exaggerating. There is a political problem – I shall be the last to deny that – and it must be solved. Shooting at each other is not going to do much good, and neither,” he added with an apologising smile, “will the burning of farmhouses help very much.”
“That is almost exactly my point,” replied the priest with satisfaction. “But my conclusion is different from yours. I conclude from it that if the British would stop using their guns, or, might I say, their military power, and let the people of Ireland decide in a peaceful and democratic way how they wish to be governed, the problem would soon be solved. As long as the British use guns to prevent that, they will provoke the others to take up guns as well. I dislike violence as much as you do. I would go so far as to say that I would personally never use violence, no matter what the circumstances. But after all the years of peaceful effort to let the Irish choose their own form of Government and the sorry failure of it all, what justification do I have to prevent violent people from trying to win, what we, the peaceful people have miserably failed to achieve? Or put it another way: why should we give up our belief in Irish government for the Irish, because a few wild people do things of which we do not approve.”
The priest had spoken slowly, carefully selecting his words and without any aggression or animosity. It was as if he was debating a difficult theological point with a colleague.
“When you are saying 'we should not give up', do you include me,” said Henry suddenly.
“Yes, of course I do, otherwise I would not be here. You are as much an Irishman as I am,” replied the priest emphatically.
It pleased Henry to hear it but nevertheless he did not wish to yield to the young Father's reasoning.
“How are you going to solve Northern Ireland? You won't talk or for that matter shoot Ulster into any form of Home Rule.”
“Exactly,” replied O’Brien “They were the first to take up guns. They did not accept a peaceful and democratic decision.”
“And neither did the Irish Republican Brotherhood nor the Fenians before them. It does not prove much, does it? And the two of us won't solve the problem this evening either. What about the problem of Mrs Verling. It is one which we might at least be able to alleviate,” said Henry, trying now to steer the conversation away from controversy.
“Of course, Major, that was why I came after all. You must forgive me, but when talking about the misfortunes of Mrs Verling, it is difficult to avoid the wider aspect. You cannot ignore politics. If you try you will soon find out that politics have no intention of ignoring you.”
“If you have a fund to support Mrs Verling and people like her, I will be pleased to give you ten pounds. But in spite of all your persuasive arguments, I don't think I will be able to give a financial subscription to this Republican Government.”
“That will be very acceptable,” said Father O'Brien warmly, “And with my gratitude goes the hope that some day you will support the other cause as well.”
“Alright, I will write you a cheque right away. Just wait a minute and I will get it.”
Henry disappeared into the office to write the cheque. It was about eight o'clock and the whole evening was still before him. He had taken a liking to this gentle priest and the way he spoke. Even if he supported the rebels, he was good company. So when he came back with the cheque he said, “And now you must drink a glass of port with me. It will give you another opportunity to convert me into a rebel.”
“I will be very pleased to do that,” replied the priest.
On Monday there was work to be done and little time to think about love, loneliness or politics. Cattle had to be shifted to another field, but before that could be done, the fencing had to be repaired. There were large areas where the banks had crumbled and several gaps had been inadequately stopped with loose sticks and pieces of gorse-bush. Last summer, cattle had broken out on several occasions into fields where crops were still growing.
Rather than build up the banks again with stones and earth Henry planned to use the modern and quicker method of timber stakes and barbed wire. The men worked all day, digging holes for the stakes, swinging the sledge hammer and stringing the wire, with Henry going from one gang to the other pointing out where to place the stakes and how to tension the wire.
With Henry’s support and supervision, there was never a tool missing or not fit for the work, a stake short or a roll of wire insufficient to span the stretch they were doing, and at the end the day, the men were amazed themselves that they had finished the whole field, remembering the times when Henry had been away when the same job, when it gone done at all, had easily taken them twice as long. It had been hard work but they had not disliked it and probably had to admit a sense of pride in the achievement.
After tea they brought thirty bullocks into the new field. It was a field along the road and to avoid going through crops and new grass, they led the animals out on the road and from there through a steel gate into the field they had just prepared.
The next day they did the adjoining field and they would have gone on fencing other fields if on Wednesday a problem had not arisen. The steel gate giving access to the field from the road was found open and all the bullocks had disappeared. Henry’s first thought was that the gate had not been properly secured and that the cattle had pushed it open to escape onto the road. But the men looked up and down the roads and the boreens and asked all the neighbours, and nobody had seen anything, until the son of a shopkeeper in Lisgoold, who had come home the previous night from an escapade on which honour forbade him to elaborate, said he had seen a herd of cattle on the road being driven by a number of men into the direction of Walshtown. The only possible scenario left was that the cattle had been stolen.
Although it was by then past teatime, Henry drove off immediately to Midleton to report the theft to the RIC. The constable listened sympathetically to Henry's story and made elaborate notes on the location, the numbers, the age of the animals, the breed, et cet era. Finally he said, “We will be looking out for them.”
“But that is not enough,” retorted Henry angrily, “You must send men out to find them.”
“Now Sir,” replied the constable tactfully. “That is for the Sergeant to decide. And he will be hearing about it tomorrow.”
The next day, Henry was back to talk to Sergeant Musgrave. Having explained the whole story again, Henry suggested that he would make some of his own farmhands available to join RIC patrols to look for the stolen animals, but to his surprise the Sergeant shook his head.
“I am sorry Major, but I cannot send patrols into the countryside. It is against the new regulations.”
“What regulations?” asked Henry with surprise.
“You see, Major, the last few months, or if you like the last year, there have been attacks on constables going about their business in the countryside and a number of them have been killed. In some areas, the rebels have even besieged the barracks. We have not had much of it in Midleton, except then for the shooting up of the army lorry. The new regulations say that we must not expose the men to unnecessary risks. So you see, I can't. The stealing of your cattle may be a trick to lure two constables out into the countryside.”
“Do you mean to say that you are abandoning the countryside.” Henry's surprise had now given way to utter astonishment and a growing anger.
“It is all very regrettable. I personally think that I could still send a man into the countryside and nothing would happen to him. But I do not decide policy. Experiences elsewhere have been very different from what it is here. And the policy is not to expose constables in ones or twos in the country; apart from the fact that the men themselves are not keen to go.”
“So I can write off my cattle!” Henry retorted.
Musgrave shrugged his shoulders. “We will pass the report on to other stations in the area and keep an eye on the cattle market here and in Cork and Fermoy. They may turn up somewhere. You never know.”
The next day after his lunch, when Henry went out into the yard, Sean Power came up to him, “May I speak to you, Sir?”
“Sure,” replied Henry while he stopped and turned towards Sean.
“Sir,” said Sean Power, shuffling his feet, looking at the ground and obviously ill at ease, “Your man says that you should see Father O'Brien in Carrigtwohill and he is expecting you.”
Henry, who had anticipated a request for a day off to attend the funeral of some nebulous relation of Sean, did not know what to make of this remarkable statement.
“What man, Sean?” he replied.
“It is a message Sir, and I am to tell you,” answered Sean, with a mien as if the explanation was really superfluous.
“But what man gave you the message?” asked Henry again patiently.
“Oh him, I don't know Sir, but you should see the priest.”
“Do you mean to say that you don't know the man who gave you the message.”
“That is right Sir. Don't know him at all.”
“How then do you know that the message is to be trusted, if you don't know the man who brought it.”
“Arra, that's alright Sir, I know my man,” said Sean with what he felt was irrefutable logic.
Henry decided it was pointless to ask further questions and indeed wiser not to, but instead to simply follow instructions, and that afternoon, when he called on him, Father O'Brien did indeed seem to expect him.
“I am sorry to have asked you to come all the way to Carrigtwohill, but it seemed better this time that you came here.” Father O'Brien began. “I hear you had cattle stolen.”
“That is right; thirty bullocks out of a field along the road.”
“And the Constabulary will not be of much help in finding them,” continued the priest.
Henry looked at him with surprise. “How do you know that?”
“It is common knowledge that the police are withdrawing from the countryside. I think I mentioned that to you already when we were talking last Sunday, not knowing then of course that your cattle would be stolen.”
“Do you know who did it?” asked Henry hopefully.
“No, I don't. But I know someone who might be able to help you get them back. I will give you his name and you can go and see him. But before I do that, may I go back to our conversation last Sunday when I explained that in certain parts of the country the local people are trying to manage their own affairs. Firstly because they want to, but also in recent months because they have to. The old Government is abandoning them. You have noticed it now yourself. I would hope that you will not consider these people rebels. If you do, I don't think I can take the risk of introducing you to them.”
“Does the man you are talking about know who stole my cattle?”
“I don't think so. But if you explain your case to him, he may be prepared to find out. If so, I can assure you that he has a much better chance of finding your cattle and apprehending the thieves than the RIC have.”
“Is this man who might be able to help me part of the new Irish Government that you were talking about the other day?”
“He is indeed. Some people would hold that he is part of an illegal organisation. Unfortunately such people still have a good deal of power.
Because of that, we must maintain a certain amount of secrecy, or confidentiality if you like. And you must be prepared to honour this confidentiality and not say anything about your visit there to the Constabulary or to anyone who might pass the information on to the Military.”
The priest had spoken in the same mild-mannered and careful way that had impressed Henry during their previous meeting. Sitting there in his chair, gesticulating slightly with his hands when he wanted to emphasise a certain word or turn of phrase he looked the very opposite of a revolutionary. Yet there was now no doubt that this man was deeply involved in what was variously called Sinn Fein, the Republican movement or the rebel organisation.
Henry hesitated. It was clear that if he accepted the offer he was recognising not only the existence of but, to a certain degree, also the legality of the new Irish Government. His traditional loyalty to King and Country revolted at such an idea. But he was also curious to find out what exactly was going on amongst these people and most of all he wanted his cattle back. In the end he said, “My political opinions are a little different from yours, but I am not an informer. You can be assured that whoever I meet, or whatever is discussed, no one else will know about it.”
“I thought you would say that. Otherwise I would not have made the suggestion to you at all. If you go to Clonmult on Friday afternoon and ask in the public house of Mary Donovan for a man named Desmond Fitzgerald, I will see to it that they know about your call. I think you will get on with him.”
“Is that the man who keeps two thoroughbred stallions?” asked Henry in surprise. “If so I know him well.”
“The very man,” replied the priest with a smile.
17. RESULTS
If it had not been for the fact that Henry knew Desmond Fitzgerald reasonably well, Henry might still have baulked at the thought of seeking the assistance of an illegal organisation. Fitzgerald was a pleasant man and a good judge of horses; if he was involved, it could not be all that bad. But perhaps it was not a question of good or bad, but only one of loyalty, and Father O'Brien's loyalty to one concept of Ireland was not necessarily worse than his own. Still, it seemed unthinkable that he, Henry O'Neill, grandson of the 3rd Earl of Dumbermere would betray his loyalty to the King and accept the help of a rebel.
But the loss of thirty bullocks is an important matter, no matter where your loyalties lie, and on Friday afternoon he drove into Clonmult where he found the widow Donovan behind the counter of her pub. He asked for Desmond Fitzgerald.
“He is busy at the moment,” she replied. “But he knows you are coming. He said would you have a drink while you are waiting.”
She spoke as if she was in charge of a surgeon's waiting room. There were several other people in the pub, ail drinking pints of black stout. If this was a centre of the new Republican Government, it was obvious that they had the supply of stout properly organised.
“Are they all waiting to see him,” Henry asked.
“No, there's only two wanting to see him and they can wait. I am sure he won't be long now. What will you have then?”
“Give me a small whiskey, please.”
While she busied herself with the drink he looked again round the room. It had not changed since he was here the last time. That was when the Hunt met had in Clonmult last January. Mrs Donovan brought him his drink and seemed to guess his thoughts.
“Did you have a good season?” she asked. “You were only the once here this year, or was it twice?”
“It was not a bad season at all. I think we did meet twice here, but I was out only the second time, in January.”
“I remember it,” she said. “But you don't have as many out as before the War.”
“No,” he agreed. “Times have changed.”
“You were in the war yourself.”
As Henry was about to reply a constable in uniform suddenly came through the door at the side of the counter. It was, under the circumstances, about the last thing that Henry had expected to see.
The constable nodded at Henry and said, “Good day now, Mrs Donovan,” to the widow, who replied to his greeting with a friendly smile.
When he had left the pub, she said, “I am sure you can go in now. I'll show you.”
She took him through the same door that had so suddenly produced the policeman, into a passage and from there to the drawing room, where Desmond Fitzgerald sat behind a table. He stood up as soon as Henry came in, held out his hand saying, warmly, “Welcome Major, and sit down. How are you keeping?”
They exchanged the customary farmers’ civilities, inquiring about the state of crops, the price of cattle and the condition of their various horses. But it wasn’t long before Fitzgerald got to the point, “I was told about your trouble. Perhaps we can do something about it.”
“Did Father O'Brien tell you about it?” asked Henry.
“He did, and I have made a few enquiries. I also asked Constable McLoughlin to check on it. He says you reported it to the Midleton barracks and even spoke to Sergeant Musgrave. But they can't do much for you.”
“Was that the man I saw just leaving?” asked Henry and his amazement was so obvious that Fitzgerald felt obliged to give some explanation.
“It may be a bit confusing to you but it is really quite simple. We have an RIC station here with two constables. They have been in the village for years. Everybody knows them and they know everybody. In these difficult times they have to think not only of their work but also of themselves and their families. So, about half a year ago we suggested that they should cooperate with us. They agreed and we struck a bargain. They provide us with information they get from Midleton; we leave them do their normal work and guarantee their safety and they leave us alone. It works well.”
“But in Midleton they told me they were no longer allowed to leave the village, so they could not look for my cattle,” said Henry.
“That's right. So they stay in the village. Except on Sundays of course, when they follow the harriers. But they are not in uniform then.”
Desmond Fitzgerald laughed heartily but then continued in a more serious tone. “I think they will soon close the station and that is worse. We will miss out on a lot of useful information and our two fellows will have to move to Midleton or Cork – a major inconvenience for them – and they will be asked to do things they don't want to do. I told them to resign, but where are they going to get another job, and we don't have the money to support them.”
“But why would they close the station?” asked Henry.
“They believe in Cork that a two man station in the country is a sitting duck for the Republican Army, which of course it would be if we had not made this special arrangement, but then, we can't tell them that in Cork.”
“I must admit that I find it all rather confusing. What exactly is your function in all this?”
“I am Justice of the Peace, Head of the Police, representative on the County Council – that is to say ‘Ours’ not ‘Theirs’ – and I am, in general, trying to keep things going in this area until the British agree to leave us to our own devices. So, if cattle are stolen, it is my business to know about it and that is the reason why you are here.”
“Do you know anything about them?”
“Yes, we found most of them and we are looking for the rest. Apparently some got lost during the night, when these lads were driving them away.”
“How do I get them back?”
“Will you pay a small sum for delivery?”
Henry nodded, only too pleased that it all was so easy.
“Then I suggest they come back the same way as they went; during the night. One morning they will suddenly be back in their field, to the great surprise of Sergeant Musgrave.”
“Can I help in finding the ones that are still missing?”
Desmond Fitzgerald considered this for a while, and finally said, “We know the way they went from your place to where they were found. The missing bullocks will have escaped somewhere along that road. I think it is better that we look for them. Our people will get better cooperation,” to which he added hastily, “I don't mean any offence.”
“I understand,” replied Henry. “I will be glad to have back what can be found. But before I go away, you must explain one thing to me. When you say ‘We’ who do you actually mean?”
“The Republican Government and the local people. Virtually everyone supports us. Not everyone is active in the sense that he does a job in the organisation, but there are quite a few who do. In this case we told them that cattle had been stolen; the story travels around with incredible speed, and everyone helps because nobody wants his cattle stolen the next time round. And soon enough a farmer comes up to say that he has been offered cattle for sale and he did not trust it at all.”
“Why does he not report it to the RIC?”
“Because he does not trust the police and because he knows that when he needs help the RIC won't be able to give it, whereas we will.”
“Are you not afraid that someone will tell the police or the military authorities in Cork about you?”
Desmond Fitzgerald shrugged his shoulders, as if the possibility was of little consequence.
“It could happen of course. They can send out a patrol that would be too strong for us to resist, or they can lift me from my bed in the middle of the night. I would get five years but freedom sooner than that when the British withdraw. But why should they arrest me? I am not doing them any harm.”
“But what about the attack on the Army lorry and the corporal that was shot dead on my land?”
“I have nothing to do with that. We are not involved in military operations. The Republican Army does not tell me what they do and I am not asking.”
“But the rebels are part of your organisation,” said Henry with surprise. “And if you are not involved in the violent part of the effort, is it not true to say that without them the RIC and the Courts would still do their normal work and there would be no need, or perhaps I should say, no opportunity for you to be what you are.”
“I suppose so,” said Fitzgerald with some reluctance. “Anyway, I have no intention of asking these boys to stop. Why should I. We should have had an Irish Government for Ireland long ago. If the boys help to bring it about, why should I tell them to stop, even if they do a few stupid things. Besides, they would not listen to me anyhow.”
“I can see that point,” said Henry, not wishing to get involved too deeply in a political argument, now that he was within sight of getting his cattle back. “But it is still a little confusing to me. By the way, do I owe you anything for what you have done for me?”
“No, nothing. Only give me a few quid to pay the lads who will drive your cattle back.”
Henry delved into his pocket and produced three pound notes which he gave to Desmond Fitzgerald and then stood up to take his leave. But at the door he turned round again and said as if it had just crossed his mind, “By the way, do you know who the thieves are?”
“Yes, we do,” said Desmond Fitzgerald, cheerfully.
“What will happen to them?”
“Well, we can't put them into prison. We are not that well organised. But they will be punished; you can rely on that.”
On Wednesday morning of the next week the cattle were back. Sean Power was the first to notice it. He normally walked into work from his cottage further up the road to Midleton, and when the weather was fine, as it was this particular morning, he would climb the first gate into the land and take the short cut to the house through the fields. In this way he found the animals, grazing quietly in the field from which they had been taken a week ago. He hurried to the house, where he then had the satisfaction of being the first to bring the good news to Henry. It caused, naturally, great excitement. All the hands, who were assembled in the yard to receive their instructions for the day, followed Henry to see the amazing fact for themselves. They counted twenty-eight bullocks; two were missing.
“Tis a miracle,” said Sean Power.
Everybody readily agreed with this profound statement. A more suspicious might have asked why anybody should go to the trouble of stealing cattle and bringing them back a week later, but that would have been pointless as there would have been no answer to it.
“What ever happened to them during the week,” said Henry at last, “They did not get much to eat. They are in a miserable condition. We had better check them over one-by-one to see if they have any injuries.”
The news of the miraculous return of Major O'Neill's cattle spread like wildfire through the countryside. Many different explanations were offered. Some said they had been stolen by soldiers in revenge for their comrade shot dead on O'Neill's land. Others held that the rebels had taken them and released them against payment of a ransom. There was even one man who said they were taken by a furious creditor and the affair was being hushed up. All these theories however had to be rejected when on the next Friday morning two men were found dead in a boreen somewhere North of Clonmult. They had been shot in the head. One of them had a piece of cardboard round his neck on which was written “Informers and cattle thieves beware.”
What had been an interesting and unending source of speculation turned suddenly into gruesome violence that nobody wanted to know about. For Henry it took away all his pleasure in the return of his cattle in perhaps a slightly illegal way. For most other people, it confirmed what a few had said earlier: that O'Neill was on very good terms with the rebel movement.
The next day, Henry went to the market in Midleton to buy calves. Dealing with others, it seemed to Henry, he was treated with more than usual respect. There was even a touch of fear in the people that he met; fear for a man who had powerful connections and was ready to use them if he was wronged.
After the calves had been loaded in a cattle truck and sent off with Jimmy Keeffe to Donoghmore, Henry went to see Sergeant Musgrave.
“I just wanted to tell you that I got my cattle back. That is to say twenty-eight of them and two still missing,” he said.
“So I hear,” replied Musgrave, “How did you find them?”
“I did not find them. They came back themselves in the same way as they went: unexpectedly and secretly in the middle of the night,” replied Henry with as much conviction as he could muster.
“They just came back like that,” said Musgrave with the signs of disbelief all over his face.
“Well, not exactly I suppose. We spent three days looking for them, asking almost every farmer from here to Fermoy. Everybody knew about it and perhaps the thieves got cold feet.”
“And that is all you want to tell me, even now that two men have been murdered?” asked Musgrave in a grave tone of voice.
“That is all I have to tell.” Henry stood up to take his leave, but Musgrave urged him to sit down again and continued, “I don't need to remind you that it is your duty under the Law to tell me all you know. I accept that there are degrees in this. If you decide to pay money to the rebels for the return of your cattle, I can understand that and pretend it is none of my business. But when two men are killed – seemingly in connection with the affair – that is different.”
“But I did not pay any money,” said Henry trying to show indignation.
“That would surprise me.”
“Why?”
“Well, you are not exactly an ardent supporter of the rebels' cause. So why should they do you a favour. Look Major, I will be as clear as I can. We are not allowed any longer to send constables into the countryside, without military protection. That means that I could not do very much about your problem. I don't mind that under the circumstances you found your own solution. But shooting two fellows is going too far.”
“I did not shoot them,” said Henry defensively.
“I am not saying you did. I am asking you to give me the information that I need to arrest the murderers.”
But Henry shook his head, “I am sorry Musgrave, but I can't help you.”
Musgrave shrugged his shoulders, “Alright, well, you have your cattle back and that is the main thing as far as you are concerned. Goodbye now.” He held out his hand. Henry shook it, feeling somewhat guilty.
When he arrived home, Jimmy came out of the gate lodge to help stabling the horse and to tell him that the calves were safe in the field with the other cattle.
“We can have more young stock with all the grass and hay that we will have this summer,” Henry said, glad of an opportunity to talk about other things.
“We can go again to the market next Saturday,” suggested Jimmy, “But the prices might be higher. We got good prices today.”
“Yes, certainly. I think it would be worthwhile even if the prices are a little higher. By the way, Jimmy, did you check that the gate is properly closed.”
“Indeed I did Sir,” replied Jimmy.
Then suddenly, in an impulse Henry asked, “Who brought the cattle back, do you think?”
A knowing smile came over Jimmy Keeffe's face, “Sure Sir, we all know that. The boys did it of course.”
“What boys?” asked Henry again, trying to make it sound as if it was of no importance.
“Well Sir, the boys ....” Jimmy obviously found it difficult to be more precise. “You know who I mean. The ones that are fighting for Ireland's freedom.”
“Oh, I see,” said Henry with feigned surprise.
“But why would they bring my cattle back?” “Because they don't approve of stealing cattle,” replied Jimmy promptly.
“Do you think these two men were shot for stealing my cattle?”
To which Jimmy answered slyly: “Don't be asking me now, Sir. You know better what went on than any of us.”
“I don't Jimmy, and that is the truth. I did not want these men killed. I would rather have lost my cattle.”
“Twas a terrible thing to do Sir. I would not like to have it on my conscience.”
“Nor would I, Jimmy, nor would I.”
But he could not put the thought out of his mind for the rest of the evening, nor indeed during the next Sunday. In Church the problem worried him for most of the service but towards the end he became more composed and it occurred to him how two weeks before, in the same place, all his thoughts had been about Julia. That seemed ages ago now. Had she added from his memory so quickly? What would she have said about this whole cattle affair? Would she understand how he had drifted into this tangled web of rebels and thieves, well-intentioned intrigue and misconstrued loyalty, where what people thought you had done or believed you stood for was far more important than what you actually tried to do?
But then, what you tried to do, so often misfired that in the end it was often difficult to remember what you had intended to do and then all that remained was a vague, sad feeling that you had drifted off the right road and were unable to find it back. What he had wanted to do was to keep away from politics and look after the farm so that John could take it over when he was twenty-one. Instead he had fallen in love with the child's mother, as a result of which she had to leave the country in dishonour. And in politics he had managed to make people believe that he was an important man in a secret organisation.
All this confusion revived his thoughts to leave Ireland altogether. But if he and Julia left for a new life, were they entitled to sell the farm, merely to provide themselves with the means to live their illicit life together? The commotion of the congregation rising for the final hymn woke him up out of his preoccupation and he joined the singing, trying hard to concentrate on the words in the hymn book.
When leaving the Church he said good morning to friends and acquaintances, as one always does. But this morning he imagined that many eyes were avoiding him. Even the rector looked past him, seemingly eager to start a conversation with people who came behind him through the church door.
He drove home with Miss Jennings, looking sad and not responding much to her conversation. In an effort to help him she said, “But Major, it is not certain that the two who were shot had stolen the cattle. People are only guessing. Why would they otherwise call them informers?”
It was said in kindness but the effect was opposite. It confirmed to Henry that everyone believed he was to blame for it. After lunch he went to the cottage where Sean Power lived and said to him, “Would you ever go to Father O'Brien in Carrigtwohill and tell him that I must speak to him urgently. Say that I will be at home for the rest of the day, but I can also come and see him at his convenience.”
The priest came to the house at six o'clock. Henry received him, this time in his own room on the first floor. It was an indication of the friendship that was developing between the two men and the priest did not fail to notice it. Henry started the conversation without taking much time for civilities.
“I wanted my cattle back and I am grateful for your help. But I did not want two men shot for it. Had I known, I would have preferred to lose my cattle.”
The priest nodded in a sign of understanding. “I thought you would feel that way; therefore I made some inquiries. The story that I have been told is this: there were at least five men involved in the cattle raid. Three of them were caught by the lads. They confessed, received a good hiding and were let go with the message that if they ever did it again, or talked to the police about their experience, they would be shot. The next day two other characters walked into the RIC station in Clonmult and say they have valuable information on rebel activities, but they want money for it. The constable on duty says he is not authorised to pay for information, but he would pass it on and would they come back in the evening. The constable passes word to the lads and when the two enter the village again later that day they are picked up.”
Father O'Brien shrugged his shoulders helplessly and continued, “I don't know exactly what happened thereafter. Desmond Fitzgerald tells me they confessed to being part of the cattle gang. How much they knew about our organisation I don't know, but Desmond Fitzgerald says he could not take the risk of letting them go. So he took the decision. Who am I to say that he should value their lives more than his own and that of the lads, not to speak of the two constables.”
“You make it sound very plausible,” replied Henry, “But still the two dead men are somehow on my conscience.”
“If they are on your conscience, how much more should they be on mine?”
“Are they?”
“Very much. More than I can express to you. But standing idly by while others fight and die for Ireland's freedom would weigh on my conscience even more.”
“That was the justification for the last war and for the killing of millions of men. I know it well. I believed in it when I was in the army in France.”
“These millions of men are not on your conscience?” asked the priest gently.
“No, not really.”
“Why are these two then?”
Henry thought about this for a while and then choosing his words carefully he said, “I think because the relationship is closer – it is so much more personal – and perhaps also because it is perceived by others to be my responsibility.”
The priest sighed and without much conviction said: “Don't be too impressed by what others say or think. No one can live without sin. God forgives those who confess their sins. And he does it much more readily to men of good intentions.”
“I wish it was as easy as you explain it,” said Henry sadly.
“Do you have other problems than the two men that were killed?” asked the priest.
“I have,” said Henry. “But let's not talk about my problems anymore; except one thing. My old father was shot dead returning home from his club in Cork about half a year ago. The police never found out who did it. They could not even find a motive. Some people say it was a burglary that went wrong. Others believe the rebels, or the Volunteers, whatever you wish to call them, were responsible. You have close contacts with them. Could you find out whether they were in anyway involved? It would put my mind at rest if I knew exactly what happened.”
“I don't know about that unfortunate incident. I have been here only a few months,” said Father O'Brien apologetically, “But I will make inquiries. I would be very surprised indeed if any of the Volunteers had anything to do with such a senseless act.”
It was well said. Henry had appreciated the priest's efforts to relieve his conscience. Therefore he did not wonder at the platitude that had crept into the priest’s last words. They talked on about the legitimacy of violence in the pursuit of freedom – earnestly and honestly – endeavouring to understand each other's concept of freedom and trying not to admit that one man's freedom may be another man's bondage. It felt good to talk and to explore, in the comfort of your own home and without commitment, a view that was different. It encouraged Henry to think that all problems could be reconciled.
Henry’s optimism lasted into the Monday morning when it was, just before lunch time, shattered again, this time by a letter from his Solicitors.
Dear Major O'Neill,
The agents retained by us have now reported on their efforts to find a buyer for your property. They have unfortunately not been successful, with the exception of the offer I mentioned to you when you were last in our office. Although the price was well below your estimation, the agent did pursue the possibility. Yesterday we received news however that the client had withdrawn altogether. It is the agent's view that prices for property of the type that you wish to dispose of, are continuing to fall.
Please give us your instructions as to whether we should continue our efforts and what minimum price would be acceptable to you.
Riordan & Partners
His first reaction on reading the letter was one of annoyance. He put it away in his pocket, deciding that, in any event, the day's work should be completed. But his annoyance resurfaced frequently all afternoon, and at times flared up into a rage. He rationalised his mood to be caused by the fact that Arthur Riordan and the agent between them seemed to assume that a much lower price should be accepted.
“What do these people care?” he said in frustration to himself. “They look upon the thing merely as an opportunity to earn a fee!”
After tea he read the letter again. His anger had subsided a little and he began to realise that Riordan was only pointing out what could be done and was not even offering an opinion on the desirability of the sale. It was up to him to take a decision. Nevertheless, his mood did not improve much and he continued to brood about the problem until he could not stand to just sit there alone contemplating his predicament. He stood up and went out.
Not knowing what to do, he walked to the cattle and the new calves. From the cattle he went to see the large field that was being kept for hay, and from there he walked all the way to where the hunters were grazing amongst the sheep on the rough, uneven land in the far corner of the farm.
It was as good as dark when he came home again. The letter was still in his pocket, but instead of going upstairs to his study to write a reply as he had intended, he suddenly found it more urgent to bring the books up to date, and he went into the office instead. He lighted the lamp and was soon absorbed in the figures. When it was half past ten, he decided it was too late to write letters and went to bed.
The next morning work for the farmhands had to be organised, first and after that had been done, Henry did his usual round to make sure that everyone was busy and there were no problems. After lunch he went to see three different farmers in the neighbourhood that he had heard had calves to sell. He bought a total of seven with much talk, haggling over the price and glasses of whiskey to seal the transactions. He came home late, slightly under the weather from these exertions, ate a cold supper and decided he was not in a fit state to write letters to awkward solicitors.
On Wednesday morning he felt it would be much better to go to Cork at the end of the week to discuss matters in person with Riordan, but when Friday came one of the new calves seemed to be very weak, so he felt it best to stay home to monitor how the calf would respond when brought into a warm stable to feed it with a mixture of milk and water. The animal did not respond very well and as they believed it might die he cancelled the trip to Cork.
The next morning the animal was alive and well, which was a great source of satisfaction. But it was now Saturday and more calves had to be bought at the market in Midleton. When he came home in the afternoon, well pleased with the new animals he had acquired and the prices he had paid, visiting the Solicitors in Cork was as good as forgotten. But when Sunday came around again, emptying the pockets of his tweed jacket to put whatever he needed into his Sunday suit, he found the letter again.
There is little distraction on a lonely Sunday and scant opportunity to put off replying to a letter that should have been dealt with five days ago. He kept telling himself that selling the estate for the prices indicated was ridiculous. If prices for grain and cattle recovered a little in the autumn, as he was convinced they would, the nett profit of the farm per year would be more than ten percent of the offer that had been withdrawn. Besides, the proceeds, if he could even sell at that price, would not be adequate to pay their passage to the Argentine and buy a suitable property there. And he couid not ask Julia to live in poverty; that was out of the question.
The more he thought about it, in Church, over lunch and during the afternoon walking over the land, the more he became convinced that it was the wrong time to sell. The low prices were caused by the troubles. As soon as they were over, and they could not last very much longer, prices of property would recover and he could sell then. It was really quite a simple conclusion and in the end he only wondered why it took him so long to arrive at it.
After tea he finally took pen and paper and wrote two letters. The first one was to the Solicitors. It simply said that he had decided to postpone the sale of the estate until normal times had returned. The second one was to Julia. It read:
Let me know as soon as you can that you will come. Paris is beautiful in May; it was beautiful even during the war. I am sure you will enjoy it.
My dearest Julia,
Could we not meet in some place where nobody knows us? Paris is not far away and as anonymous as anyone could wish. Even if it was only for a few days. It would be a wonderful break from the problems I have had in recent weeks. I will book into the Hotel Bristol in the Rue du Faubourg, St Honore on the evening of the 21st of May.
Let me know as soon as you can that you will come. Paris is beautiful in May; it was beautiful even during the war. I am sure you will enjoy it.
Yours in love,
Henry
18. PARIS
“Is it good news?” asked Mrs Stokes, even before Julia had completely read the short letter. Julia, her mother and father and little John were just finishing breakfast, when the maid brought the letter in. Julia had opened it at once while a flush of excitement went over her face.
“Oh, it is from Donoghmore House,” she replied vaguely while she continued to look at the paper.
She had quickly grasped the message and wanted to gain time in the hope of finding a suitable story that would satisfy her mother's curiosity. When finally she could no longer keep up the pretence of reading she said, “They are wondering when I will come back.”
“Who are they?” asked her mother, a slight sign of surprise arising in her eyes.
“Oh, my father-in-law, the housekeeper, the groom and other staff.”
It seemed to satisfy her mother; at least for the time being. Julia folded the letter, placed it back in the envelope and pretended to resume the breakfast that she had, by now, well finished.
“Well, I will hear about it tonight I am sure. I must go now,” said Mr. Stokes, wishing to remain neutral in any argument that might develop between mother and daughter.
As soon as he had left, Miss Marchfield came in to take little John. When Julia and her mother were alone again, Mrs Stokes inquired cautiously, “Why would you go back to Ireland? Don't you think it would be better for you to stay in London? At least until the troubles are over; it would be so much better for the child as well.”
Julia suddenly saw her plan of escape. “I don't want to be a burden on you. I am old enough now to look after myself and then, and there is the farm to think of.”
“Nonsense,” protested Mrs Stokes. It was exactly what Julia had expected and she continued sweetly, “If I can stay a little longer, I will be very grateful. But I just cannot stay here for ever.”
“I did not say that you should stay here forever,” said Mrs Stokes, anxious not to press the issue too far, “You must, of course, someday start a new life. But my point is that you can better do that from your parents' home in London than from a farm in the wilds of Ireland.”
“Alright, then I will stay. But I must go back to Ireland for a few days to make arrangements. I really left only for a two week holiday.”
“Well, I am glad that is agreed,” said Mrs Stokes with great satisfaction.
Julia was silent for a few moments but then she continued thoughtfully, “If I go back for a few days, don't you agree, mother, that I should leave little John here. The travelling is really too much for him. Although on the other hand, his other grandfather will be very disappointed not to see him.”
“Of course you must leave the child here.” Mrs Stokes did not think that the question required any further discussion and immediately proceeded to new plans for later on in the year.
“We should take John to the seaside this summer. We can go to Torquay for July and August, like we used to do when you were young. Father can join us there for the weekends and during his leave.”
“Oh, you are very good, mother. What would I do without you!”
Mrs Stokes got into the spirit of it and talked on about plans for the summer until Miss Marchfield came in to ask should she dress John for his walk and would Mrs O'Neill wish to come along herself.
“Yes,” said Julia immediately, “Today we will all go together.”
Miss Marchfield left the room again, but Mrs Stokes called her back saying:
“Oh, and Miss Marchfield, if you have no other obligations, you can consider the position to be permanent. My daughter is staying.”
“Thank you very much. I will be very pleased to stay Madame,” said a blushing Miss Marchfield.
As soon as they had reached Knightsbridge, Julia said to Miss Marchfield, “You take John to the Park and I will find myself a cab to take me to Paddington Station to arrange my tickets to Ireland. You see, now that I have decided to stay I must go back a few days to arrange my things over there. You go on now and I will find my way.”
“Yes, Madame,” replied Miss Marchfield dutifully and walked on.
When Julia had found the cab, she ordered the driver to Victoria Station and there she bought a return ticket on the boat train to Paris and paid cash. She had been very tense ever since reading Henry’s Letter. It was partly because of the necessity to keep the truth away from her mother; in fact, finding an excuse to absent herself for a few days from home had so preoccupied her that the other option of simply declining to go had not occurred to her at all.
Now that the ticket had been bought and a plausible excuse found, she began to wonder. It was not at all clear why Henry had made this unusual proposal or what he meant by “a troublesome time.” Did he only want to be together again for a short while, or did he want to talk about the future? Had he perhaps changed his mind? She had always sensed that he would find it very difficult to part with the farm and with life in Ireland. Suppose he had doubts about their plan; would she keep him to his promise? “Of course not,” she said firmly to herself.
So firmly did she answer her own question that it was as good as an admission that she was already building her defences against the disappointment of being rejected; or rather, against finding out that her lover was, after all, not prepared to go to the end of the World to be with her.
Absorbed in her thoughts, Julia had started to walk back to her home, which was in fact quite near to the station. Nearly there, she realised that, if she came home too early and before John and his nanny, it would require more excuses, and she quickly altered her destination to the Park. When she arrived John and Miss Marchfield were nowhere to be seen. Searching for them along the Serpentine and by the Pavilion, her meeting with Paul Young came back to her mind.
“Perhaps I am foolish,” she mused and then she took Henry's letter out of her handbag and slowly tore it, envelope and all, into tiny fragments. She held the remnants in her hand for a short moment, and then threw them away. The wind took them so that they spread out over the water like confetti over a bride.
“I will go to Paris,” she said softly to herself, “and we will find out what to do.”
But Julia’s little plot to escape to Paris had to overcome a few more difficulties before it could be carried out. First, here was her father who wanted to book her passage to Cork. Next, they wanted to see her off at the station but the train to Dover left much later than the one to Fishguard. She protested against all this well-meant assistance with a vigour born out of necessity.
“I am very happy to stay with you. But you must understand that I am no longer a schoolgirl. I can manage my own affairs and I want to live my own life. Please don't interfere with it. Besides, this is 1920 and not 1890 when you got married. Women do look after themselves today.”
Her father – who never said or did much about family matters – was surprised about her outburst, but sensed that it was important to her to make, on this occasion, her own arrangements. When she had left her room he said to his wife, “You must let her be. She is still very absorbed in her problems and Ireland means more to her than we think. Be glad that she has decided to stay here. If you come to close to her feelings, she may head off again. Time will heal most things. Give her time and don't ask questions.”
“I will try,” said Mrs Stokes meekly. “I only want to see her happy and she is not happy now.”
She had written to Henry where and exactly what time she would arrive, and when the train pulled into the Gare du Nord, he stood there on the platform, impeccably dressed in his pre-war, slightly outmoded suit and with all his fifty years still a handsome man. She rushed out of the train to embrace him, almost forgetting to engage a porter to take care of the luggage. Outside the station they found themselves an open horse-drawn cab and drove off into the brilliant morning air of Paris. They were like two noble children, escaped at last from their wrongful imprisonment and making their triumphant entry into the promised land. The city welcomed them and gave them their freedom.
At the hotel, she checked in as Mrs O'Neill of Donoghmore House, Lisgoold, Co Cork. The clerk smiled and expressed the wish that Madame would have a pleasant sejour. Henry had retained two adjoining rooms with an interconnecting door. Being still a little shy about their sexual relations, he was leaving it to Julia's discretion how exactly these relations should be. But he was also a courteous man and he did not want to presume an intimacy that she might not desire.
As she could not have had much sleep during her journey from London, he suggested that she should rest and they would go out in the afternoon. But she was young and a night's travelling had not affected her much, so that she said, hastily, “No, no, I only want to wash and change. And let's go out then. I feel wonderful,” and went to her hotel room, to return after what seemed to Henry a surprisingly short wait, dressed according to the latest London fashion, looking youthful, radiant and very desirable.
They walked through the Avenue de Marigny to the Champs Elysees down to the enormous expanse of the Place de la Concorde, gazing at the nervous activity of the city. From there they entered the the Rue de Rivoli, with its shop windows and people relaxing on the sunny street-terraces of the cafes, talking and drinking their coffee and glasses of white wine. She looked at it in wonder, sometimes silently, sometimes waving her hands in excitement and exclaiming, “It is another world. The buildings, the streets, the traffic. Even the people seem to behave in a different way; more elegant and more intimate.”
“Were you ever in Paris before?” Henry asked.
“No, I was seventeen when the war broke out. Schoolgirls of my age were not supposed to go further than Brighton. My parents did not believe in going abroad.”
They walked back through the Tuilleries and then across the Champs Elysees again with the Arc de Triumphe coming closer as they continued on. But having passed the Rond Point and with the Arc still far away, Julia began to notice how tired she really was, and although it was still early, she agreed with alacrity when Henry suggested that they should have lunch. They selected a spot on a corner of a sidestreet where the tables had been set out between glass screens in front of the restaurant’s large front window. From there, they could look down the wide thoroughfare and enjoy the bustle and excitement of their shared wonder of Paris on a warm sunny summer's day.
They talked away, happily, about the marvels of the city. When the conversation halted for a moment, Julia asked, “And how is everyone in Donoghmore House?”
Henry had tried, ever since he had arrived in Paris, to ban Ireland and its problems from his mind. But now that Julia had brought it up, in her natural, uninhibited way, thinking of Ireland did not make him ill at ease or sad or fearful.
“Very well; they ask me sometimes how you are,” he replied, and with an apologetic smile added, “and when you will come back.” She ignored the indirect question and instead, somewhat hesitantly continued, “What did you actually mean when you wrote you had had a difficult time?”
She was expecting it would prove to be a sensitive subject but Henry replied cheerfully, “Oh, we had thirty bullocks stolen, but we got them back again. It seemed a terrible problem when it happened, but now, having lunch at the Champs Elysees, I wonder why I got so excited about it.” And to cut short any further discussion about it, he added hastily, “Would you like to go to the Louvre Museum this afternoon?”
The answer seemed to satisfy her, for she replied eagerly, “Yes, I would love that.”
The lunch having restored her energy, Julia was ready to set off at once, but Henry said, “We better take a cab. It is a long way and we should be back in the hotel in time for tea and a rest, because tonight we are going to the Opera. I have two places booked. I seem to remember that you liked the theatre.”
“Oh, how wonderful!” she exclaimed, “Yes I do love that. I went to the Opera once in London.” She clapped her hands in joy.
And so they went on, all day, sauntering from one happy moment to the next, feeling at one with the sparkling city that had taken them in and had given them anonymity and freedom.
After the opera they had supper and went on dancing and drinking until deep into the night. Julia, after her short rest in the Hotel, was tireless again, urging Henry to dance on and on. It was, admittedly, an energy sustained increasingly by large quantities of champagne, but Henry was happy to oblige. He felt young and carefree, holding his Julia closely, feeling her body move in the ever continuing swirls and steps of waltzes and foxtrots.
Back in the hotel they fell on the bed in Julia's room, laughing and kissing and playfully pulling at each other's clothes until, at last, they sank, body and soul, deeply into each other, oblivious to all the world around them.
The next morning Julia woke up late with a headache. It took a few moments before she recognised her strange surroundings and remembered the events of the night before. Then she noticed that she was not even wearing a nightdress and that Henry was gone. She went into the bathroom, looked into the mirror and saw herself, still young and pretty, but with the clear signs of a late night under her eyes.
“If your mother could see you now,” she said prosaically to the face in the mirror.
She put on a nightgown, stepped into her slippers, bathed her face in cold water, combed her hair and then went back into the room. The bed was untidy and her clothes were scattered around. She collected them wearily and hung them in the wardrobe. It was well past eleven and there was no sound from the other room.
“Henry must still be asleep. I better wake him up,” she said to herself.
She opened the door and found, to her amazement, Henry fully dressed sitting behind a finished breakfast, reading a newspaper.
“Good morning,” he said cheerfully. “Want some coffee? That is to say if it is not cold; or shall I order some breakfast for you?”
She slumped into a chair saying, “Yes, coffee please. My head feels awful.”
“Black coffee, a good breakfast and fresh air will soon cure it.” he said, whilst ringing the telephone at the same time to place the order. “But it was a marvellous day, was it not?”
A smile came over her tired face. “Yes, it was worth it. And I will be pleased to do exactly the same today.” But after reflecting on it for a few moments she added, “I should drink a little less though.”
“I thought we would walk along the river today; look at Notre Dame and then go up the Eiffel Tower. And if you behave like a good girl,” he added mockingly. “I will take you tonight to the Folies Bergeres.”
“Gosh,” she said, “Is that where they have those daring shows with the dancing girls?”
Unfortunately, the coffee and the prospect of a new excitement failed to adequately overcome her weariness and after a while she said, rather apologetically, “I am awfully sorry Henry, but I must lay down for another hour or so. It is perhaps also the lack of sleep in the train. I am not in a condition to face the World. Not even Paris.”
It was nearly two o'clock before she appeared again, in a new dress and looking much livelier.
“Feeling better and ready for the Eiffel Tower and other adventures,” she said and off they went again into the sunshine of the streets and boulevards.
They had tea in the restaurant of the Eiffel Tower, looking out over the wide expanse of the city.
“Why does it feel so different from London?” she asked off-handedly, quite absorbed in the magnificent view.
Henry shrugged his shoulders. “Perhaps because people here feel less restrained, or because they are more given to pleasure than we are.” Half-mockingly he added: “They have the reputation of being slightly immoral. That is always a great attraction.”
“An attraction for people like ourselves?” she asked with a hint of reproach.
“No, sorry,” he said hastily. “I did not mean it that way,” but seeing that it was difficult to retract he added with a laugh, “Although I must admit, if the Rector in Midleton knew what we are doing here, he would be very distressed.”
“Why did you really ask me to come?” Her voice was suddenly serious.
It had escaped his mind. He looked at her with a faint sign of confusion on his face, but then he gathered his thoughts.
“It seemed so important when I wrote you and so unimportant now that we are here together,” he said truthfully. “But it is about the sale of the farm. You remember I was offered a price. I thought it was far too low and you said it did not matter, as long as we could get away together. Well, that offer has been withdrawn and I will have to accept much less. It is on account of the Troubles. Very few people are willing to buy.”
He paused for a moment to see if there would be any reaction from her, but she looked calmly at him, as if waiting for him to go on.
“It is ridiculous to sell at these current prices. It would not be remotely enough to go to South America and settle there. We must wait until the Troubles are over; then we will do much better.”
He had spoken the last sentences quickly and a little impetuously, but she remained calm.
“You do not really want to sell the farm, do you?” There was a touch of sadness in her voice.
“No, no,” he protested, “I only want to postpone it until the troubles are over.”
“Will that be long?” she asked coolly.
“One cannot be sure. I don't think it will be more than six months.”
It took a few moments before a smile broke over her face. “If you think that it is best to wait,” and she shrugged her shoulders somewhat helplessly, “I don't know much about these things.”
He put his hand on hers and said tenderly, “Don't worry. It will all come right.”
“Was that the only reason you wanted to see me?”
“No, of course not,” and he gently stroked her hand. “Come, let us go down and walk along the river. We need to be back in the hotel in time for you can have a rest before we go out.”
The show in the Folies Bergeres fascinated her, though at times she could not help blushing. She did not dare to look at Henry, fearing the embarrassment of meeting his eyes. But Henry was equally determined to avoid looking at her, particularly during the scenes that were perhaps a little too daring for a twenty-three year girl, even if she was from London Town.
During the interval, they drank glasses of champagne in the bar, telling each other what a great spectacle it really was and how well it was put together and managed. After the show they went back to the same nightclub where they had been the night before.
“How do these girls do it?!” Julia asked several times. “Dancing about on one leg with the other one in the air. They must be very clever. Did you ever see it before?”
Henry nodded, “Yes, during the war. We spent a few days leave in Paris; some friends and myself.”
“Did you all go to bed with the girls afterwards?” she asked trying to tease him.
“No, we did not.”
“Not even with the other girls. The ones that were hanging around in the bar,” she persisted.
But he shook his head slowly and said, almost apologetically, “I was happily married at the time.”
“Oh, I am terribly sorry,” she said with her face growing red. In her embarrassment she emptied her glass.
“Never mind,” he said forgivingly, and to break the spell that had been cast by his remark he added, “Come on, let's dance,” and they were carefree and happy again.
Julia drank, perhaps not as much as the previous night, but enough to become again the reckless rebel that was somewhere hidden inside her.
“I wonder whether you can do the Can-Can when you are half drunk,” she said suddenly.
“You could not even do it stone sober.”
“I am sober and I can. Shall I show you,” and she looked at him full of defiance.
“Shht,” he said softly. “Let us sit down and eat.”
She might have ignored him, had not at this moment, a foreign visitor, that is to say neither French nor English, become confused between his dancing steps and his alcohol and fallen unceremoniously on his bottom on the dance floor, to the embarrassment of his partner. Julia laughed loudly, pointing at the unfortunate couple. The lady in question looked angrily at Julia, who then put her hands on her mouth, as if to stop her laugh, saying, “Oh, I am sorry; I did not mean to laugh at you.”
The lady was a lot older than Julia, and not the type that was afraid of an argument. She replied sharply, “You laugh now because he is so clumsy. Make sure your man does not become clumsy. They all become clumsy when they get old.”
The angry rebuke confused and intimidated Julia. She stepped back leaving Henry to face the fray. He immediately took up the defence and while making a courteous bow he said, “Mrs O'Neill regrets the incident and assures you that she did not mean any offence.”
The formality of his words and his posture impressed the foreign woman; she calmed down and replied, “Gracia, you are a polite man.”
The proprietor had also come forward. Rows are not good for the reputation of an expensive nightclub, and he was therefore grateful to Henry for solving the problem in such a tactful way. Moreover, it was Henry's and Julia's second night in the establishment and no doubt in the expectation of a regular patronage, the proprietor made much of them, and indeed later in the evening presented Julia with a beautiful carnation, expressing the hope that Madame et Monsieur were enjoying themselves and that he would have the pleasure of seeing them again. It cheered Julia up, as it was meant to do, and within minutes she had dismissed the previous incident from her mind, throwing herself again into the endless rounds of foxtrots, tangoes and champagne.
When they were back in their hotel, Julia again wanted to do the Can-Can. She was not as much under the influence of the champagne as the previous night, but enough to insist. Henry tried to dissuade her, saying that she would wake up the guests, but she was not to be stopped. Lifting her dress, as she had seen the dancing girls do, she threw up one leg after the other, but almost immediately she lost balance and fell backwards onto her bed with her skirts in an embarrassing disarray.
“Gosh, it is more difficult than I thought,” she sighed, and lifting her head to look at Henry she added, “Don't you want to go to bed with your dancing girl, even if she can't do the Can-Can.”
The next morning she woke up in a better condition than the day before and surprised Henry while he was still shaving. They had breakfast together in his room. Discussing their plans for the day, she suddenly asked him, “How long do you think we can go on like this?”
“As long as you wish,” he said cheerfully, but then added with a little less cheer. “Within certain financial limitations unfortunately.”
“My limit is one of time,” she continued, “I have only a few days. Or did you think I told them at home that I was off to Paris with my father-in-law and not to worry about when I would be back? What exactly did you think I would tell them?”
Although she obviously said it in jest, Henry was nevertheless taken aback. The idea that Julia was under some sort of parental control had never occurred to him. He had no answer to the question.
“What did you tell them then?” he asked rather timidly.
“Well, first of all I had to agree to stay in London. They had asked me a number of times, but I kept up the pretence that I had come only for a holiday. They were delighted when at last I agreed to stay. Then I explained that I had to go back to Ireland for a few days to arrange my things. So I am in Donoghmore House at the moment. I hope they don't send letters and I am not sure what to say when I come home with the same luggage and only a few French fancy dresses added to it.”
“You could say that your things are being sent on,” said Henry helpfully.
“That is a good idea.” She brightened up visibly.
“You could also write to me saying exactly what you are sending, and how nice it was to see me again and that sort of thing.”
“How long will you stay then?” he asked hopefully.
“I think I should go back in a week.”
It was as much as he could expect and he did not dare to ask for more.
The remainder of their days were not as exuberant as the first two had been. Perhaps it was this quieter tempo that created the opportunity for their relationship to deepen further. There was the joy of discovering the little things in each other's habits and personalities that, in the repressed atmosphere of Ireland, they had never noticed. There was their common interest in music, art and the theatre as well, and of course the sheer love of life that they both felt, holidaying in this beautiful capital of France. It all gave them a heightened sense of togetherness, tolerance and confidence in each other; feelings that were melding a permanent bond between them and the conviction that it was not their difference in age, background or character, but only the wicked Church rules on co-sanguinity that could keep them apart.
Much as they would have liked to travel back to London together, the risk of meeting someone they knew was too great. Julia left six days after she had arrived, on the early morning train to Calais. Henry brought her to the station in a cab. It was their last drive together and manfully they tried to talk about the things they had done and not to be sad. But when they walked into the station, she could not help the little tears appearing in her eyes.
“It was a wonderful time. I wish it could last forever.”
“But we will meet again,” he replied trying to make light of it.
“Yes,” she said feebly. “We could.” But there was doubt and distress in her voice. Henry believed it was the sadness of the separation, but before he could say anything to console her they were on the platform and surrounded by English passengers shouting in poor French to porters about their luggage.
Julia arrived home late in the evening, feeling lonely and depressed. To her surprised parents she said that the steamer had been much delayed in Cork on account of the Troubles, that she felt tired and preferred to go to bed at once. It was of course not possible. For nearly half an hour she had to tell little lies about Ireland, drink hot milk and sup some buttered bread before she could at last retire to the solitude of her own room. But in bed she tossed from one side to the other, agonising and trying to find a ray of light in the impossible future of loving a man whose life she could not share. When she fell asleep at last it was a sleep disturbed by confused dreams; about a train, with Henry on board, pulling away while she was left behind on the platform, the last surviving person in a strange and cold land.
The next morning while still in her dressing gown, she went to little John's bedroom to wake him up. To see the child again, to hold him, to speak to him and to hear his happy responses; it all restored some comfort to her. She kept the child with her all morning: while dressing in her room, during breakfast with her parents, when walking out into the park and even during lunch.
When she finally put him to bed for his afternoon nap, she installed herself behind the bureau in her own room and wrote:
My dearest Henry,
It was wonderful to be with you again. I had been looking forward to it very much but every day and every hour that we spend together was beyond my wildest expectations. I love you and wish we could live forever in Paris, just the two of us, surrounded by those millions of people and nobody really knowing where we came from and where we were going. It was like a fairy tale, but, alas, tales do not last forever. Now, writing this letter, I am slowly but sadly facing the reality of the World again. What remains is gratitude for the few days of happiness that we had together. And also a determination not to be selfish. You must not sell the farm against your better judgement and for a price which even I can see is too low. I know that in the past, I showed impatience with your reluctance. Do not take any notice of it. Here, in the tranquillity of my parent's home, I can now see that I was wrong and that you were right.
I miss you terribly and I long to be back in Ireland; to soft winter days and riding out in the morning. But it is better that I stay here. Keep me in your heart and maybe someday God will provide a solution to our problems.
Little John sends his love. I think he also misses Ireland. Hyde Park is but a poor alternative for a child who is used to the country.
Do not forget to send the few things that I asked for. I would like to have them but they are also our alibi. I don't think anyone here suspects anything and, for the time being, it is better to keep it that way.
Au revoir, whenever that may be, my precious love.
19. CLONMULT
Notwithstanding Julia's rather sad departing and the uncertainty as to when exactly he would see her again, Henry left the Gare du Nord in an excellent mood. The problem of selling the farm and having to go to a distant and completely strange country had been postponed, and there was the promise that they would seek opportunities to keep seeing each other; perhaps not in Paris, but then in some other convenient resort on the Continent. As far as he was concerned it would be before the summer was over; although October in Nice would be very pleasant as well, he mused. With the pressure of having to take difficult decisions out of the way, at least for the time being, life looked definitely more hopeful than it had done two weeks ago in Ireland.
He travelled back the way he had come, via Dieppe and Newhaven. It was the way he had travelled during the war and also it seemed appropriate to take a route that was different from Julia's. The next morning he arrived in London with a slight, if unnecessary fear of being recognised and thus betraying his escapade, but all went well except that the steamer from Fishguard to Cork did not sail until the next day. Not wishing to stay in London he decided to take the train to Holyhead, the steamer to Kingstown and from there the long train journey back to Cork.
There was great military activity in the port of Holyhead. The train up from London had had no delays and Henry boarded early. Sauntering the promenade deck of the ship, he could see at least a hundred soldiers on the quayside about to embark via the gangway leading to the aftship. He had, in his days in France, seen thousands of troops embark and disembark and the sight of a few more on the Holyhead-Kingstown steamer should not have made any difference. But there was something strange about this lot. Although they wore khaki, they were not ordinary infantrymen. Apart from their rifles, they nearly all carried revolvers and their head gear consisted of a large green beret. There was not much discipline amongst them and the officers did not try to exercise any. Yet they all went aboard in an orderly manner, without any fuss, as if they had done it many times before.
Henry realised that he was watching the embarkment of a company of the new special force that had been formed to fight the rebels in Ireland, and it disquieted him. These soldiers were a sign of the sorry state of the country to which he was returning; a state of affairs he had managed to banish from his mind for more than a week and which, in the euphoria of his reaffirmed and much-deepened relationship with Julia, he had believed he could continue to ignore. But here it was again, right in front of him; more soldiers to burn down more farms, which would, in turn, drive more people into the hands of the rebels.
Nevertheless, he was still prepared to believe that if the Army acted swiftly, with justice and without mistakes like burning Verling's farm, they would succeed in stopping the rebels and bring about a situation that was peaceful enough to find a solution to the problem of the Government of Ireland; and a reasonable solution to the sale of the farm as well.
Of course Julia's idea of going to the Argentine was too far-fetched and he felt that she accepted that now herself. But if a good price could be obtained for the farm, then, with the income that had been settled on her and his Army pension, they would have sufficient to live in some comfort in France, Italy or some other place on the Continent where no one would know them. And even if they made new friends, the sort of people that one was likely to meet in those places would be unlikely to take exception to their somewhat unorthodox arrangement.
He walked up and down the open deck for a while, but when it became cooler he went into the saloon and sat down in front of a window. While he was gazing absentmindedly at the activity on the quay outside, his thoughts drifted away and began to form an image of a wonderful cottage on a sun-soaked slope, overlooking the blue Mediterranean, with Julia and the child sitting contently on the veranda, until he was suddenly brought back to reality by a familiar voice.
“I say, Henry. Never expected to meet you here.”
It was James Carey. Henry looked at him in surprise; surprise about meeting his hunting friend in of all places on the steamer to Kingstown, but even greater surprise about seeing him in uniform.
“Upon my word,” said Henry while quickly making the connection between Carey's disappearance from Ireland and the embarking soldiers. “So you are coming back in arms. Sit down and tell me about it. Are you with the troop that has just embarked?”
“Yes, indeed. A fine company of volunteers.”
“What exactly are they? They don't seem to be ordinary soldiers.”
“That is right. We are a company of what is called the Auxiliary Division of the Royal Irish Constabulary.”
Henry nodded, “I have heard about them. But how did you get involved in that?”
“I volunteered, like the rest of them.”
“They tell me that most of these volunteers held a commission during the war. Is that so?”
“Yes, nearly all of them. The pay is good and they have the equivalent rank of an RIC sergeant. That is much better than an indifferent job in an office or, in many cases, no job at all.”
“But you managed to keep your rank. How did you do that?”
Modesty was not one of Captain James Carey's qualities, and without the slightest hesitation he replied, “I know more about the work that has to be done than any other officer in the Division, and General Crozier realised it.”
There was a hint of raised eyebrows in Henry's mien, but since good manners did not allow Carey's brash statement to be questioned, he steered away from it by simply saying, “Good for you. Are you heading for Cork?”
“No, we are going to the Curragh for six weeks training. We will then be posted, but I don't know where. How is Cork by the way?”
“Alright, pretty much the same as when you left. We have had a few incidents, but not nearly the same sort of trouble as in West Cork.”
“Have you seen my mother?” Carey tried to ask the question in the same casual way as the previous one, but he did not quite succeed.
It made Henry's reply a little more gentle than it otherwise would have been.
“Yes, I went to see her a few times. She is well and looking after the farm as she always did,” and hesitantly he added, “She worries a little about you.”
Carey shrugged his shoulders in a helpless sort of way. “I feel guilty about her. I write, just to let her know I am alright without saying what I do. It might upset her is she knew. But I am not made for a quiet farmer's life. I must have action.”
“It looks as if you will have plenty of that in the next few months. Good luck to you; as long as you leave me out of it. Shall we have dinner?”
“No thanks. I must go aft and check whether everyone is on board and make sure they are properly looked after. I have had them together now for three weeks. They are a good company; I expect a lot of them. See you later when the ship is at sea.”
And with that he moved off. Henry had his meal in silence; the second evening in succession on a cross-channel steamer. It felt lonely after the warmth of Julia's presence; so lonely that he was disappointed about Carey's inability to stay. He did not really like the man, but realised that his feeling was influenced by the dislike that Julia had taken to him.
“Strange though,” he said to himself, “how people react differently to circumstances. Desmond Fitzgerald became an important man in Sinn Fein; had two cattle thieves shot and thought it was a just and proper thing to do. James Carey became a police officer and would not hesitate to arrest or shoot Desmond Fitzgerald. Both came from good, Roman Catholic, Irish farming stock and each would call the other a traitor. Why could it not be arranged in a more sensible way, for instance: Desmond Fitzgerald as a Resident Magistrate for his district and James Carey joining the Allied Expeditionary force in Russia where he could get as much action as he wanted. Why did they have to fight each other in their own country?”
Still, on balance he felt that right was on James Carey's side, no matter what one's personal feelings about the man might be. If the others had not started to shoot policemen and soldiers, there would now be no need for this new Auxiliary Division. Perhaps Carey was right. The best course of action now was to hit hard and stop the insurrection.
After his meal, Henry went back to the saloon and looked out at the silent sea passing by. The ship had covered only one hour of her three hour crossing. He had not slept very well the previous night on the Dieppe-Newhaven steamer. The prospect of having to stare out of the window for another two hours added to his weariness and after a little while he fell sound asleep. He remembered waking up a number of times and noticing the ship still moving steadily through the water, when suddenly a steward in a loud voice said to him, “You can go ashore now, Sir. The gangway is out.”
He got up somewhat confused at first and with a stiffness in his neck. It was ten o'clock! He walked off the ship to look for a porter. It took some time to find one, and his luggage had only just been stored and he had taken his seat, when train moved off. There was no sign of James Carey; neither did he see him on the platform in Dublin.
He was too late for the train to Cork, so he checked in to the Royal Hibernian Hotel, had a light meal brought to his room, and went to sleep early. The next morning he bought a copy of the Irish Times before boarding the train at Kingsbridge Station. There was a heavy headline on the front page.
SURPRISE ATTACK ON CAVALRY BARRACKS IN MALLOW
In heavy print over three columns, the article went on to explain that there were about fifty men of the 17th Lancers stationed in Mallow but that at the time of the attack most of them were out exercising their horses. A Sergeant Major was killed and the rebels made off with thirty rifles, a machine gun and thousands of rounds of ammunition.
“It is appalling the things they do these days,” said a gentleman sitting opposite him in the first class compartment.
“If they don't teach them a good lesson now, it will only get worse,” said another.
“Indeed,” acknowledged Henry from behind his newspaper, not wishing to get involved in a discussion.
When the train stopped in Mallow, the two gentlemen left the compartment eager to obtain more information. There were a number of soldiers on the platform and some passengers were apparently being questioned. Through his train window Henry could see some thin black smoke rising from the centre of the town, and wondered what that might be.
The two fellow passengers came back just before the train pulled out again.
“The town hall apparently caught fire during the fighting,” one of them said, “And it is still burning.”
“There seemed to be damage in the main street as well. At least it looked like damage,” said the other.
“But the military authorities are firmly in control; the Sergeant on the platform assured me of that,” resumed the first one.
“If the fighting was in the barracks, how can the town hall and the main street be damaged?” asked Henry, but as soon as he had asked the question he regretted it.
“The fighting spread of course, while they were driving the rebels out.” said the first gentleman. He was clearly annoyed about Henry's lack of understanding of military matters.
“Oh, I see,” said Henry simply and took up his reading matter again.
There was a good connection from the station in Cork to Midleton and Henry had cabled to the house from Dublin asking them to send Jimmy to meet him there.
“Did you hear the news?” was the first thing that Jimmy said, “They attacked the barracks in Mallow and got away with thirty rifles. Here, I got a paper for you.”
Henry glanced quickly over the massive headline. It extended over the full face of the front page of the Cork Examiner. And then his eyes caught the smaller print on the left side.
Town Hall, Creamery and Houses set on fire in reprisal
He folded the paper under his arm and started to look for his luggage. The porter was just coming out of the station. He then looked back at Jimmy to check if he was ready to help lifting the suitcases up, but Jimmy was still standing there, staring at him with excitement all over his face, eager for some sign that Henry shared in his joy about this great boost to the rebel's cause.
“Would you not give the porter a hand?” said Henry, ignoring completely the obvious expectations of his groom. Jimmy dropped his eyes instantly and his face changed back into the neutral, obedient expression of a servant. “Yes Sir,” he mumbled.
When they were under way Henry began to feel some remorse. “They all support the rebels,” he Thought, “and they think I do as well. He must be disappointed.”
To console his man to some extent he asked, “When did you hear the news?”
“The minute I came to town,” and eager to continue the conversation he went on, “I was afraid you would not get through Mallow. Half the town is burning they say.”
“There were fires all right. But we had no delay at the station. The paper says that the soldiers started the fire. Is that so?”
“True enough Sir, tis terrible altogether. The women and children had to find protection with the constabulary tis said. But all the lads got away without as much as a scratch on them,” he added with great satisfaction.
“Well, at least that is something,” Henry replied, more to please Jimmy than out of conviction.
Whatever might have happened in Mallow, the farm was undisturbed and as peaceful as ever. The house was basking in the June sunshine looking its best with tidy flowerbeds around, the ivy on the wall and the raked, well-kept gravel in front. The hand of Miss Jennings was evident, both outside the house as well as inside. Under her stern eyes, the maid and even Jimmy had worked to a purpose; something which could not be said of the yard and the farm.
The men had neglected their work while Henry was not there to supervise them. There was a headman but once again it was clear he did not have much control. Perhaps it was his own fault, he now thought, never giving the man any authority when he was there himself.
Inside, the house was clean, tidy and cool. It welcomed him with its quiet dignity and the assurance that certain things in life do not change. It would be quite possible to live here alone, seeing Julia from time to time, until the Troubles were over and some sort of permanent solution had emerged. If he found a better headman or a steward who would run the farm properly while he was away they might travel to Italy or even to North Africa. If they were not too extravagant they might stretch it to two or three months in a year.
The escapade in Paris had been very expensive, but that was only once, he assured himself: only to find out how much they did love each other and that they wanted to be together. That was now certain. In the past, when she had lived in Ireland, quite housebound, with little distraction and hardly any other people of her own age to meet, it might have been loneliness or insecurity or just force of circumstance that had brought them together. But now that she had become exposed again to London society and she could find whatever distraction she desired, she had nevertheless wanted to come to Paris with him, and there their love and trust had found a new, higher, permanent level
What more could he want? Between their meetings he would live here in peace on the farm, shutting himself off from the outside world and its troubles. What did he care about cousin Patrick and his wife Jane, whose only purpose in life was to avoid scandal; or about the righteousness of the rector in Midleton; or for that matter about the neighbours, the Hunt, the Club in Cork and whoever else in this society of prejudice and hypocrisy, where people went to Church on Sunday and murdered each other on Monday!
The next Saturday, as was his habit, he went to Midleton. There was the cattle market, and even if one was not buying or selling at least one wanted to find out what the prices were doing. There were always things to buy for the farm and on this occasion there was a letter from the Bank Manager asking him to call in.
The visit to the Munster and Leinster Bank went as expected. The current account was overdrawn and what was he going to do about it. The manager was very discreet and did not once refer to the two telegraphic transfers to Paris for considerable sums of money. But it would be another three months before crops could be sold and cattle should really be kept until the Winter. Only lambs might bring some cash before the Autumn, but that would not even cover the wages and expenses that had to be paid meanwhile.
But financial problems could not really disturb his newly found balance and he went to the market confident that all such things would, in time, be solved. He had hardly arrived when a constable approached him with a message from Sergeant Musgrave. If he could spare a moment, would he be good enough to call on the Sergeant in the barracks.
“He probably still wants to find out who brought my stolen cattle back,” Henry said to himself as he traced his steps back up the Main Street again.
The Sergeant was sitting behind his writing table when Henry was shown in. He got up immediately and extended a large hand and a broad smile to Henry.
“Good of you to come. I heard you have been away. Did you have a good time? Please sit down,“ and while he continued to speak in a loud voice, he went to the door, made sure it was properly closed and turned the key in the lock. Then, still talking loudly, he went to the open window and closed that as well. After all these precautions, he took his place again at the other side of the table and said in a whisper, “I wanted to have a word with you. Between friends, you know. Not as a Sergeant of the RIC”
To Henry it was all very unusual. Musgrave had never spoken to him in this way. It put him on his guard.
“You see,” continued Musgrave amicably, “I must enforce the law and keep the peace. That is my job. But it does not mean that I am opposed to certain political ideas. If political activists break the law, I must do something about it, of course, but as long as I have been stationed here in Midleton, I have been able to make my own judgement on these matters and, as you know, I always did so.”
“Where is this leading to?” wondered Henry as he listened to Musgrave's vague allusions, “Another attempt to wring the names of the Clonmult fellows out of me?”
“The trouble is,” Musgrave went on, “that I can no longer make up my own mind. We have had some of these new recruits here for the last few months, 'Black and Tans' they call them. They were under my control and we managed to let them fall in with what we considered good practice. But now they have set up this Auxiliary Division. It is almost a second RIC and they can do whatever they like.”
“Why do you tell me all this?” asked Henry, whose wonder was starting to change into suspicion.
“I am coming to that. You see, I know there are a group of people in the country, shall I say in the Clonmult area, who have very different political views than people in Dublin Castle. My men have been withdrawn from the remote areas of the country; so they can no longer keep the peace in the eternal family quarrels and pub brawls of our beautiful countryside. Therefore, if somebody else does it now; well, I did not see any reason to interfere. But these new Auxiliaries that are now here; they take a different view. It is hard to blame them after what happened in Mallow. Moreover they can't see the difference between Sinn Fein and the IRA”
Musgrave paused again, as if he did not know how to go on, but perhaps also to see how Henry was reacting.
“I can see your predicament. It is all very unfortunate, but what can I do about it?” asked Henry carefully.
“Tell your friends in Clonmult two things,” and there was suddenly determination in Musgrave's voice. “Number one; that there will be a raid within the next few days and it won't come from here but from Cork. And secondly tell them, in the name of God, to stop things like Mallow. If they go on with that there will never be an end to it.”
“What on earth makes you think that I, out of all people, can tell them that?” asked Henry with feigned surprise.
Musgrave shrugged his shoulder, as if he wanted to say, “Don't fool me,” but instead he said, evenly, “You are the only one that can bring the message.”
“I am not so sure that I can, but I will try,” and with that Henry left the barracks.
Henry thought about it for a day. His immediate reaction was one of surprise to discover again how people believed him to be a supporter of the rebels. But it was soon overtaken by annoyance that he was being dragged into a conflict with which he wanted nothing to do. Could they not leave him out of it! But gradually, in the course of the evening and during Sunday, he became concerned about the fate of Desmond Fitzgerald and his friends in Clonmult. They were decent people; they had helped him and if he now could save them from arrest, should he not do that?
The thought that they would be arrested and perhaps be executed, while he could have prevented that, became in the end too much and on Sunday night he went, unannounced to see the priest in Carrigtwohill.
Father O'Brien had cherished the hope to earn Henry's gratitude by finding out quickly how the old Colonel had come to his end. He was bitterly disappointed when he learned the facts. And ever since he had been agonising about what to do: either to tell Henry the truth and bring to light the dirty business in which a prominent member of a successful flying column had been involved; or to pretend that he had been unable to find out anything at all. Both alternatives were equally distasteful to him. He had looked forward to meeting Henry again, but in the dilemma in which he found himself, he had put it off from one day to another.
The news that Henry had left the country had come as a relief and gradually the problem had receded to the remoter parts of Father O’Brien’s conscience. When therefore, on that fatal Sunday evening, Father O'Brien's housekeeper knocked on the door of his study to say that Major O'Neill wished to see him, the unfortunate priest was immediately overcome by fear and indecision.
“Tell him I am not at home,” he said instinctively.
“But he knows you are,” his housekeeper replied with surprise.
“Then tell him I am on my way to say mass and will be busy for the rest of the evening.”
She went back and did as she was told. Henry listened with incredulity and insisted that she should go back to say that it was very urgent. She demurred but eventually went. But when she returned to the study, the priest was no longer there. He had left the house through the back door to go via the passage behind the house to the Church, where he hoped to find out if God knew of any solution to his problem.
“Ask him to come and see me as soon as he can,” Henry said finally to the housekeeper, and in the expectation that the priest would call sometime on Monday, he went home.
But Father O'Brien did not turn up and in the night from Monday to Tuesday, Desmond Fitzgerald and three of his associates, together with the widow Donovan and a dozen innocent people, were lifted off their beds by a half company of Auxiliaries.
On Tuesday morning the postman was the first to bring the news of the arrests to Donoghmore House. It shattered Henry. He became so depressed that Jimmy Keeffe and the lads in the yard mistook it for anxiety. Convinced as they were that their master was part of the rebel organisation, they began to fear that the soldiers could come up the drive any minute. One by one they excused themselves under some pretext, and after lunch only Jimmy was still around; the gate lodge where he lived was too close to the house to make any story about a sick wife or child credible.
Miss Jennings, who had her ear closer to the ground than Henry, was quick to understand what was happening. Having seen Jimmy's unhappy face for most of the day, she eventually said to him, “Don't worry. They won't come here. He has too many friends in the Army. The lads would be safer here than in their own homes.” And as if it was a great secret she added, “Don't tell anyone now. He would not like it at all if he knew I had been talking to you.”
It all escaped Henry's notice, absorbed as he was in his feeling of guilt for not having gone straight to Desmond Fitzgerald himself.
Most of the innocent who had been arrested, were released a few weeks later, except the two who had in the meantime succumbed under the care that the Auxiliaries had lavished upon them. The evidence against Desmond Fitzgerald was overwhelming. Apart from the informer's tales, a loaded revolver was found in his house and enough letters and documents to bring him the death penalty. But the penalty was not executed until they had extracted the maximum amount of information from him.
The widow Donovan came home, unharmed, after two days. They still made allowances for women.
The group of rebels who had carried out the raid on the Mallow barracks were resting in their hideout in the Knockmealdown Mountains. A few had gone home to their farms and houses in North Cork, West Waterford and the South Riding, but most had stayed hoping and planning for new ventures. They had no justification really for assuming the arrest and probable death sentence of Desmond Fitzgerald or the killing of two innocent men from Clonmult was in any way a reprisal for their raid on Mallow, but such was their hate of the Crown forces, that they were convinced it was.
Some of the men, particularly those who had known Desmond Fitzgerald well, were so incensed that they called for an immediate attack on the nearest Army post, but others, with a cooler mind, pointed out that there was no military value in emotional reactions. After some argument the column commander decided that they should not be distracted from their real purpose; the collecting of more firearms and the dislodging of the Constabulary from their remaining isolated country stations.
The Midleton contingent violently disagreed. Another bitter argument followed and since it threatened to split the column, the Midleton lads were finally given permission to take their own action.
It was a much depleted Midleton contingent. Michael Leahy, after his unfortunate capture of the English corporal near Carrigtwohill, had been transferred to administrative work in Cork City, where, as everyone agreed, he made a more valuable contribution to the cause of Ireland than in a flying column. Mick Ahern had been sent on a special mission lo Ulster. The reason or the nature of the mission, no one knew, except Father O'Brien, who had impressed on the Brigade Staff that it was too much of a risk to keep Mick in the area. Another man, who had fervently argued for action, excused himself at the last moment on the grounds that his face was too well known in Fermoy, and in the end it was only John Fitzpatrick and two of his Midleton friends who, on the Friday after the arrest of Desmond Fitzgerald, set out for the garrison town of Fermoy.
Their plan was simple. After nightfall they would position themselves in a dark alleyway leading off the main street to the river. There they intended to wait, with hand on revolver hidden in their coat pockets, till closing time. And so they did, and when three soldiers came out of the nearby pub, they silently stepped behind them into the street and shot them in the back. It had been the intention to shoot four, so that it would match the message – two for each man from Clonmult – which they had written in advance on a piece of cardboard and which was to be placed on the bodies of their victims.
But good intentions do not always bring the desired results. At the sound of the shots, a large number of soldiers and civilians came running out from the numerous public houses in the main street and in the confusion that followed, the assailants barely made good their escape. The cardboard fell, face down, on the pavement where it was trampled into the muck. It took two days before a trader, sweeping up the debris in front of his shop, found it. The letters had faded and some had disappeared altogether. The disfigured text did not mean anything to the man and he burned it with the rest of the rubbish.
20. FERMOY
Life on the farm was meanwhile settling down again to its normal routine. Jimmy Keeffe had, with great exhortation to keep the secret, passed Miss Jenning's remark on to the other lads. They had all returned to work, which, after all, had been Miss Jennings's sole aim. The weather was warm but wet. Crops, quite oblivious to the political problems of Ireland, were growing fast. At the first dry spell, hay would have to be cut.
Henry hardly noticed it. On Wednesday, Julia's letter had arrived. It had added another burden to his despondent spirit. It was only a week since he had returned from France, full of vigour and with the happy prospect of seeing Julia again in some pleasant, secluded spot on the Mediterranean coast before the winter set in. But the letter, loving and passionate as it was, seemed to be written in a different expectation.
There was, admittedly, the expression of a hope that they would meet again, but even more, of a fatalistic anticipation that this would never happen. Was it just pessimism, born out of the enormity of their problem, or did she perhaps, unconsciously, not want it to happen? He reread the letter time and again, without getting an answer; sometimes believing that it just had not occurred to her that they could meet again in France or Italy, but at other times recognising quite clearly that she would of course have thought of it, but that she had rejected the idea for reasons that she did not wish to explain.
When Miss Jennings served him his tea, he told her, in a listless voice, that young Mrs O'Neill had asked for her belongings to be sent to London. Could Miss Jennings please collect them and have them placed in one room? Next time he was in Cork he would ask the furniture removal people to call and collect them. Miss Jennings nodded and said, “Certainly, I will do it tomorrow at once.” She was not surprised by the request.
Henry's depressed mood continued into the next day. It was not helped by the news in the morning paper that two men taken in the Clonmult raid had died from ‘injuries received whilst resisting arrest’. He did not know them as individuals. But the thought that he had contributed to their death added to his agony.
On Friday, the headman had to remind him that the hay ought to be cut next week and the new blades for the mowing machine still had to be collected in Fermoy. At first he looked at the man with some annoyance but then had to agree, “Yes, of course. I will go tomorrow.”
It was only an insignificant oversight and there was still time enough to collect the parts. Nevertheless, he felt suddenly ashamed that he had neglected the farm, and the little incident shook him out of his sombre meditations and gave him back some sense of purpose. After lunch he walked the two large fields where the grass was standing high. It would be right next week for cutting and he became determined that it should be cut.
The next morning he set out for Fermoy. It was an overcast day, and windy with a promise of rain and it certainly did not look like the long dry spell that would be needed to make hay. Yet he passed several fields where farmers were cutting. It made him remark that in politics and the weather, everyone in Ireland had his own opinion.
In Rathcormac, there were men standing at the side of the road beckoning him to stop. When Henry asked what was the matter they said three soldiers had been shot the previous night in Fermoy and that this morning the whole garrison had gone wild. It would be safer to return. The men looked worried, but when he tried to find out what exactly the soldiers were doing, they did not seem to know. People had fled from the town, and some had only just arrived in Rathcormac to stay with relatives.
But Henry was determined that the hay should be cut and he drove on. Besides, why should he, Major Henry O'Neill, be afraid of soldiers; the same soldiers with whom he had fought the Great War in France?
The outskirts of Fermoy were deserted. But except for the total absence of people, nothing unusual was to be seen. Henry was about to dismiss the warning as the vast exaggeration of an excited mind, when, turning into the main street he was confronted with a scene of devastation. Shop windows were broken and merchandise was spread out all over the street. Small groups of soldiers were wandering around or sitting on the pavement, some of them on chairs that they had apparently brought out of the houses. They were engaged in boisterous conversation while turning over all sorts of goods and drinking the stout and the whiskey that they had looted from the pubs. One or two shopfronts were blackened by smoke, but if there had been a fire, someone had extinguished it or perhaps it had died out by itself.
Henry looked at it with distaste, indignation and growing anger, as he proceeded down the street. When he was about half way to the square, two drunken soldiers crossed the road in front of him, so that he had to pull the horse up to avoid a collision. It was only then that the soldiers really noticed him: a farmer driving into town in his two-wheeled horse drawn vehicle.
One of the soldiers stopped and said in an insolent drunken voice, “You look like a bloody Paddy. All Paddies are bloody murderers.”
Henry's anger now went to boiling point, “Behave yourself, will you. And stand aside,” he shouted, “If I was in charge here I would have you all court-martialled.”
Despite their clearly copious alcohol consumption, and despite their general belligerent state of mind, the soldiers immediately recognised the clear English accent of an officer. They decided not to take any chances, stepped aside and even tried to stand to attention, which was, in view of their intoxicated state, a little difficult. Henry looked at them in disgust and drove on. The incident had gone unnoticed bar by a few soldiers who were in the vicinity; but he was not molested any further.
On reaching the square, Henry noticed that the hardware shop, where the new mowing blades were to be collected, had its shutters down and the door closed. The shop looked undamaged, but the square showed the same confusion as the main street. Having come all the way from Donoghmore House, he did not want to turn round just because the shop seemed closed and there was disorder in the town. He wondered for a moment whether he should leave the horse and gig alone to see if there was anyone inside the shop prepared to open the door, but then decided that it would be safer to bring the horse to the livery stable across the bridge.
In front of the Royal Hotel on the square there was, some standing listlessly, some sitting on the pavement, a group of about twenty soldiers, armed with rifles and wearing helmets. There was a sergeant with them, but if he had been sent out to restore order, it could not be said that he had had much success. Henry crossed the bridge. At the other side of the Blackwater, there were no soldiers, but a group of about fifteen civilians were huddled together on the right hand side near a corner, looking fearfully at the devastation in the square and ready to run at the first sight of any soldiers coming towards them.
Henry had to turn round the corner where they stood to reach the stables and when he passed the group, one of them timidly asked how was the situation in the main street.
“The same as on the square,” replied Henry. “Most of them are drunk and if they go on drinking like they do, they will all be knocked out within an hour.”
“I have a draper's shop, just around the corner from the square. How does it look? Was it damaged?” asked the same man anxiously.
“And I have got a butcher's shop at the other side. My wife and children got away out of town, just when it started. But I stayed to see could I explain to them it was none of our doing,” said another.
“We went to the barracks just now to ask the officers to stop it but they said they could not control the men and had to wait for the military police,” said a third.
“There are still women and children in some rooms over the shops. If they were harmed that would be the worst of it. So we thought that if we went together and spoke to them, they might go away,” said the first man in a way as if he was asking Henry's opinion.
“I don't think they will listen to reason,” replied Henry. “They are too drunk now. Better leave them alone until they are exhausted. But what exactly happened yesterday?”
“You see Sir, yesterday night, three soldiers came out of Dineen's pub in the main street and these lads were waiting in the alleyway round the corner, you know, where there is the narrow street down to the river. And they just shot them. Just like that. Without any reason.”
“It is not our fault,” continued another man. “We had no part in it. We are traders; all we want is peace and some order. We have lived in peace with the garrison for as long as anyone can remember. How could they wreck the town like that?”
Undoubtedly, Henry's accent and his manner was making these people of Fermoy believe that he was part of the old establishment; that he had influence and that he would be able to do something about the disaster that had struck them.
Suddenly, they all heard a commotion across the bridge. A boy of about twelve years had come around the far corner of the square and was running towards the bridge, followed by a woman. It could be his mother or elder sister, or perhaps no relation at all. At some distance behind came two unarmed soldiers, shouting at their comrades to stop the fugitives. The boy was too fast but the woman, hampered by her long skirts, did not make it. She was caught when she was only half way across the bridge. She shrieked in anger and fear while she tried desperately to beat off the grabbing hands of the soldiers.
“Jesus,” said one man in the group. “That is Mellerick's daughter. We must do something.”
Henry, who was still in his seat with the reins in his hands, turned the horse quickly round and galloped to the scene, followed by most of the men. The horse was much faster and he arrived at the place of the unequal struggle well ahead of the others. Henry jumped off and, with the whip still in his hands he roared, “Let the girl go, damn it. You fools, let her go!“
The soldiers looked in surprise at the raging figure that was now approaching them and loosened their grip on the girl. They were confused, not knowing who this angry man with his commanding voice was and not remembering either why exactly they were holding the girl. The traders, having seen Henry's courageous example now came running up to the bridge from the North side. The two soldiers, looking over Henry's shoulders saw them coming and became suddenly afraid. The one who was holding the girl, threw her violently to the ground, turned round and made off. The other one, seeing what his mate was doing decided to run also, but not being too steady on his feet, he fell.
Things then happened very quickly. The sergeant who, with his twenty armed men, had been waiting in front of the Royal Hotel, had ordered his men forward to the bridge. Later at his court-martial, he said that he had done so to protect the girl and to take her into custody if that seemed necessary. But in the instant that the soldier fell and a dozen civilians (or at least a hundred as he was to say later) came running towards him, the sergeant ordered his men to fire.
Two of the civilians were wounded before they scattered like straws before the wind. Henry was hit twice. One bullet tore through his thighbone and the other one went into his abdomen. He was taken to the sick bay of the barracks in Fermoy, and later transported in a special Army ambulance to hospital in Cork. But all the care and the attention that the medical staff of an embarrassed British Army in Southern Ireland lavished on him was in vain; he died three days later, after suffering much pain and agony.
On a bright, beautiful morning in the month of June of the year 1920, they laid him to rest in the small graveyard in Midleton, next to his father. The bells of the Church were ringing out cheerfully under the blue cloudless sky. The many coloured shopfronts sparkled in the bright sunlight as the coffin was carried on the shoulders of four NCO's of the Irish Dragoons through the main street of the little country town.
It was an even greater spectacle than on his father’s funereal day, with both sides of a divided community pouring in to claim Henry as their own. There were scores of army officers; stiff, serious and a little ill at ease about the circumstances in which a brother officer and a descendant of a noble family had died. But he was still theirs and they had come to show it in their be-ribboned khaki dress uniforms making a vivid contrast against the black of the civilian mourners.
Patrick O'Neill, 5th Earl of Dumbermere, had thrown himself into the role of chief mourner. It was not quite clear why. He was not the closest relative, merely the nearest in terms of geography. But they let him. It is difficult to put an Earl into the background and besides, it made the rest of the family slightly noble as well.
All the big landowners and notables were in attendance and the members of the Hunt, in their top hats and dark suits, quietly talking to each other, saying how shocking it was and how sad, only eight months after his father, and where was it all going to end.
But most notably of all, there were the common people of Ireland. They had come from Midleton and Fermoy and from all the country in between and around. They did not wear medals or expensive suits, nor were they noble or did they own much land, but they were there. And if they lacked anything in decorum or possessions, they made up for it in their numbers. There were hundreds of them lining the streets or walking along in the enormous tail-end of the funeral procession. They had come to pay their respects to a decent man, who had lived amongst them and made the final sacrifice to save the honour of one of their daughters, and to show that, now, he belonged to them and not to this uniformed, top-hatted, alien class.
The service in the little Church was led by the Bishop of Cork. The Dean of Cloyne was there, the chaplain to the Forces and other Ministers of the Church of Ireland, all partaking in the service with the rector of Midleton centre stage leading a great if mournful occasion and mercifully forgetful of certain details of the private life of the deceased.
There were only two who cried: Miss Jennings, who had now lost the last member of the family she had served for near to fifty years, and did not know what to do or where to go; and Julia Stokes, hugging her father's arm and crying softly in the sorrow of a renewed ‘widowhood’.
I enjoyed the book and thought it was a good read, though I didn't expect that sudden ending. It gave us a glimpse of the life of the "aristocracy" during the War of Independence, and the different views held by the different social groups at the time. History books are always written by the winners.
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