by Leon Uris
"Hope so, hope so."
He grunted out of the chair slowly, the whiskey having found its mark, and gently pecked her cheek.
"Wait up for me, Freddie," she said. "I'll have a headache about twenty minutes after the final curtain. I'm dying to know what happened. Oh, by the by, reception tomorrow night at Rathweed Hall. There are a couple of ladies in the troupe you might like to give some attention to before they get off to Dublin."
"Ballerinas? Too damned skinny, most of them."
Another whiskey sent Sir Frederick's head nodding to his chest in a massive marble tub while his man stood close at hand to see that he didn't slide below the water line. A sharp knock on the bathroom door sent his eyes popping open. Maxwell Swan entered as Sir Frederick dashed himself with cold water to clear out the fuzz.
The Brigadier seated himself at tubside, propped his feet and rocked his chair back to a tilt and nipped at a sherry.
"Well, Max, when do we cut the ribbon to Londonderry?”
"Better have a drink," Swan answered. A long exchange into those compelling eyes told Weed the story.
"What the hell went wrong?"
"Almost everything."
"Goddammit! Get me the hell out of here!" he roared, fighting his way out of the water like a surfacing whale.. Robed in a toweled sheet, he plopped like an ancient Roman on the bedroom settee and hunched forward, fixing a glare on his assistant
Swan cast about for a starting point. "We made an assessment that Glendon Rankin was running a pretty archaic operation of the Hubble earldom. Of course, we both knew that Lord Arthur scarcely sets foot in Ulster and that Rankin was the one to negotiate with. I mean, we both felt Rankin had the latitude and authority to conclude a deal with us."
"Yes, yes."
"Knowing that Lord Arthur would likely go along with Rankin's proposals, et cetera, et cetera."
"Yes, yes, yes, yes."
"Well, Sir Frederick, something new has been added. Lord Arthur's son Roger has plunged into the business up to here," he said, indicating eye level.
"The Viscount Coleraine? Good Lord, I thought he was off in the service somewhere . . . India . . . China . . . someplace."
"To the contrary. Young Hubble has been out of the military for two or three years and has become extremely active. I venture to say he's about ready to take the whole thing over, pack and packet."
"Hubble? Roger Hubble? Sort of an arsy-tarsy chap as I remember. Besides, isn't he awfully young?"
"Obviously you haven't seen him in some time."
Sir Frederick pondered. "Well, come to think of it, it's been five or six years. How old do you suppose he is now?"
“Oh, thirty, thereabouts."
"Sprouted brains, has he?"
"Shrewd as Disraeli. He'll have Glendon Rankin out to pasture before the end of the year."
"By God, that's interesting," Weed said. "The Hubbles have had that awful Rankin family running the earldom — oh, Lord, for generations."
"Precisely the point," Swan answered. "Roger Hubble is extremely keen on converting it from a medieval fiefdom bang into the new economic scheme of things. He came right out and said he can't carry on by tenant farming as his major source of income and he's moving quickly and quietly into any number of things, linen, minerals, diverse factories. At the same time, I'm very impressed with the consolidations he's made on the land by conversion of huge acreages into flax and cattle."
"You know, Max," Weed said, "just tonight, Caroline went to the ballet with old Monaghan. That sputtering old archaic fart is determined to hang onto every last acre mortgaged to the bloody sky until he is absolutely impoverished."
"Well, young Hubble smells the end of the landed estates all right," Swan concurred.
"I gather you dealt directly with him then?"
"For the first two days there was a pretense of going through Glendon Rankin. Roger Hubble was only trying to find out what we were up to without having to make comment or commitment. After that, it was the two of us as though Rankin weren't even alive."
Sir Frederick fished about under the towel to free his hands and light a flame to the end of his cigar. "You say he's shrewd."
"Quite."
"Then why the hell is he balking about selling those dirty little bits and pieces of railroad? They're no damned use to him as they sit and he must know he'd turn a tidy profit by unloading them."
"He's completely suspicious of your motives," Swan said.
It made its mark. Weed growled his way into a robe, mentalized to the French doors, and looked down on the expansive thoroughfare. "Goddammit, Max, I want that trans-Ulster railroad more than I've ever wanted anything in my life."
The Brigadier remained passive in light of the variation on an old theme. Before that, Weed had wanted to build a twelve-thousand-ton ship more than anything in his life, and before that he wanted to build a welded ship more than anything in his life, and before that it was a locomotive that could do sixty miles an hour . . . more than anything in his life.
He turned back into the room. "Go back to Londonderry and double the present offer. If he refuses, it's war!"
"Won't work, Sir Frederick."
”Horseshit. Enough money always works."
"He's got some overriding concerns," Swan said, "says he doesn't want any weeds growing in the West."
"I'll . . . break . . . his . . . bloody . . . balls . . ."
Maxwell Swan scratched the back of his hairless neck hard with a forefinger as though it had been attacked by a mosquito and waited for his boss to repeat the threat of warfare and castration. When the paintings on the wall quit their quaking, Sir Frederick realized Hubble had him blocked. An agonized interval of reality ensued during which he sought his aide's pragmatic advice.
"Only way I see it is by an alliance," Swan said.
Weed's face went from sour to a puckish smile. "I see," he said, gleaming. "We take young Hubble in and then" — he clapped his hands together —"stamp him out later."
Swan shook his head. "He's too clever for that. If you merge, count on it being permanent."
If there was a single plank in Sir Frederick's timber it was a cherishing of his own independence as sole purveyor of personal power. The Brigadier knew that. The suggestions must have been drawn from some other kind of evaluation.
"You know you're talking against my grain, Max."
"I'm so aware," Swan answered. “I didn't want to break things off with finality. Hubble is intrigued and excited by your interest. I left an open end. He's going down to Daars shortly to see his father. It might be a good idea if you were to invite him to stop in Belfast on the way."
Sir Frederick had long come to read that very special glow in Maxwell Swan's eyes. "What's going on in your fucking head, Max?"
Swan managed what could reasonably be construed as a smile. "Caroline and Roger Hubble," he said.
CHAPTER FOUR
What an eventful day it was when himself, Major Hamilton Walby, came up to the crossroad to speak to the croppies It marked the first time in six hundred years of British occupation and rule that the villagers of Ballyutogue were to have a democratic meeting with them.
It was also my twelfth birthday, which meant that I could be the same number of years as Conor, for a few months at least, until he became thirteen.
The hanging tree was indeed an appropriate location for the grand event No one knows the exact number who were strung off its limbs but sure it ran into the hundreds, if not thousands, and it stood as a constant reminder of the Crown's presence as well as our centuries of oppression. Our lads were hanged in great droves when the Elizabethan conquest set down the mighty O'Neill clan. They were hanged in even greater numbers by the squire's ancestor, Isaiah Walby, during the Cromwell wars. They were hanged in the Jacobite war against William of Orange. They were hanged in penal times for practicing the Roman religion and during the peasant land wars and by that savage Yeomanry during Wolfe Tone's United Irish Rising. I note in passing that the
Yeomanry introduced floggings, beheadings, boiling oil and pikings as well, on this very spot. Most recently it was the Fenians. Our lads were also hanged in between those other times for various acts of disloyalty such as resisting the Constabulary who had come to evict them, or stealing our own crops in order not to starve.
Every year there was an extensive debate over whether or not we should chop down the hanging tree. We wasn't any too sentimental over its past history but it was the only decent tree left in these parts. Daddo Friel tells of a time there was a great stand of oaks all over Inishowen and land with topsoil two feet deep. The forest was stripped and the oaks carted off to be used in building the English fleet against the Spanish Armada. Erosion of the soil came soon after. In fact, Daddo says, the only thing not carted off by the British were the rocks and they would have surely been taken, too, had they been worth anything.
The Larkins, whose voices usually prevailed in such matters, said the hanging tree should stand as a constant reminder of who we were — as if we didn't already know — so for better or worse it continued to give shade to our two most powerful institutions, St. Columba's Church and Dooley McCluskey's public house.
*
The squire arrived on the most splendid Arabian I ever saw, cutting a spectacular figure in a red morning coat, high silk hat and boots polished to a fare thee well. He rode in alone as if to convey to us that he was both brave and filled with conviction. It was a well-taken point. Several hundred of us croppies a grubby lot by comparison, milled about at arm's length as Father Lynch blathered over him like he was receiving the Pope himself.
Tomas and my daddy took the squire around for handshakes and socializing but in truth we were looking him over and he was looking us over like creatures from different planets. Due to Tomas' words before the meeting, we all understood it was to be an orderly affair. It was leisurely, like of a Sunday after mass, with some of the men partaking in the public house and others visiting kin in the graveyard or just sitting around against the wall tossing stones and flipping coins. Some of the women hovered in the background, minding not to get too close because politics was men's business.
Conor and I staked out places right up against a platform built for the occasion. As the meeting began there was a slow drifting of the crowd toward the speaker. The gathering pressed in tighter because it was hard to make out the squire's words. You'd think that a man educated in Trinity College in Dublin could speak his own language more plain. It became so quiet you could hear a butterfly.
"We are embarking on a splendid new age," the squire began, "which began at the onset of this century when the cross of St. Patrick was added to the crosses of St. Andrew and St. George to become the Union Jack which we so gloriously hail. The United Kingdom marked us as a single people under a single king."
I WAS BARELY TWELVE YEARS OLD WHEN HAMILTON WALBY SAID THAT. MEANING NO DISRESPECT, I WAS STILL OLD ENOUGH TO REALIZE FROM THE OPENING REMARK IT WAS GOING TO BE A HARD DAY FOR BOTH SIDES. WE WEREN'T ONLY NOT UNITED BUT SEPARATED BY PLANETS AND STARS AND MILKY WAYS AND UNIVERSES.
"The Act of Union that made us a United Kingdom brought to Ireland your magnificent British heritage . . ."
NOW, WHAT WE'VE BEEN SAYING FOR TWELVE YEARS OF MY LIFE AND FIVE HUNDRED YEARS BEFORE THAT IS WE'VE NEVER FELT IT A GREAT HONOR TO BE CONSIDERED BRITISH.
"A time in which the greatest series of reforms and democratic legislation ever initiated by a Parliament . . ."
WELL NOW, DON'T YOU KNOW THE IRISH HAD A DEMOCRATIC SOCIETY PRIOR TO THE YEAR OF 1171 UNDER THE CELTIC SYSTEM OF ORDER WHEN YOU GRACED OUR LAND WITH YOUR PRESENCE? AND DON'T YOU KNOW THAT A BACKWARD BRITISH ARISTOCRACY HELD ANY NOTIONS OF LIBERTY IN CHECK EVEN AFTER THE IDEAS OF THE FRENCH REVOLUTION SWEPT OVER AND FREED EUROPE?
". . . now this unparalleled system of justice has been fully extended to cover all of Her Majesty's subjects . . ."
LIKE, KATY BAR THE DOOR, WHEN IRISHMEN ATTEMPTED TO FLEE TO ENGLAND DURING THE FAMINE. AH, THE FRUITS OF BRITISH JUSTICE, THE PENAL LAWS, EVICTIONS FROM OUR LAND, THE TITHE TO THE ANGLICAN CHURCH, TO RECALL A FEW.
". . . through a series of social welfare opportunities never before extended to the average citizen . . ."
WORKHOUSES, CHILD LABOR, DEBTORS' PRISONS, EMIGRATION IN COFFIN SHIPS.
". . . to massive public works . . ."
BUILDING FAMINE WALLS, ROADS TO NOWHERE.
". . . under the Act of Union, full religious freedom was restored . . ."
AFTER IT WAS TAKEN FROM US FOR CENTURIES AND RETURNED TO US AS AN ANGLICIZED VERSION STRIPPED OF ALL ITS GAELIC MAJESTY AND WONDERMENT.
". . . schools . . ."
BEYOND THE MEANS OF ANY CROPPY IN THIS VILLAGE WHERE THEY TEACH NO IRISH LANGUAGE OR IRISH HISTORY OR HUSH MARTYRS OR IRISH FOLKLORE.
". . . total political expression."
WON BY THE BLOOD OF DANIEL O'CONNELL THREE DECADES AFTER IT WAS PROMISED BY BRITISH LEGISLATION. WHAT WE REALLY GOT WAS GERRYMANDERED BOUNDARIES AND CLASS-PRIVILEGED FRANCHISE.
"Of course, that is only a thumbnail sketch of the past. What interests you and me, hereabouts, is a continuation of land reform. Let me say right off, I stand foursquare in favor of legislation that will give each and every one of you the right to purchase land of your own in unlimited quantity."
I SWEAR I THOUGHT I HEARD KILTY AND RONAN LARKIN GROANING FROM THEIR GRAVES. IT WAS A SHOCKER, ALL RIGHT. LOOKING UP AT THIS MAN IN THE PLATFORM AND HIM TALKING TO US LIKE THAT WITHOUT AN IOTA OF REALIZATION THAT IT WAS NO LOFTY PRIVILEGE TO BE ABLE TO BUY BACK LAND WHICH HAD BEEN STOLEN FROM YOU . . . EXCEPT IN THE MIND OF A HORSE THIEF.
"The heart of the matter, gentlemen, is this. The union with Britain must be preserved at all costs. Without British markets, where would we sell? We would be without privileged tariff and trade regulations we enjoy as British subjects. No greater disaster could befall us."
INDEED, SQUIRE, WHAT COULD POSSIBLY BE MORE DISASTROUS TO THE IRISH THAN TO BE FREE MEN IN THEIR OWN LAND, WHAT GREATER DISASTER?
"Where would we sell our cattle and our linen? Where indeed without British ships to convey our product and a British Navy to protect our interests? Well then, we not only receive the benefits of the most advanced culture in the world but we are poised to enjoy even greater rewards in the immediate future. Your own Church fully agrees on the matter. Your shepherd, your spiritual guidance is quite clear, QUITE CLEAR, INDEED.
"Having the vote constitutes a heavy responsibility. The question before us is, do we continue to prosper in an orderly manner as a single, united people or do we court tragedy and chaos through Home Rule? All the benefits, all the gains of British citizenship, all the glory of the Empire, all the glorious tomorrows . . . are these to go for naught? I say it's a time for us fellow British to close ranks and stand together. I ask that you do one thing so that you can cast your ballot with a clear conscience, and that is, consult your priest . . ."
Major Hamilton Walby bumbled to conclusion. He looked into a mass of faces locked in sorrow. He was greeted with neither rudeness, anger nor applause. Tomas asked if there were any questions. There were none. In an instant the men flaked off quietly, seeming a mite wearier as they trudged up the road to their fields.
In a moment there was only Conor and me and Father Lynch left under the hanging tree with the squire. His teeth were locked together in anger as he strode to and mounted that beautiful horse. He glared up the road where the men were making their way up to the heather. I'm sure he had that same look on him at other times when he rode at the head of a company of Ulster Rifles about to charge into some ungrateful natives elsewhere in the Empire.
He mumbled something unintelligible, spurred and galloped off.
*
The Lambeg drum was a Scottish concoction which gave off a shattering, horrendous boom. It was designed to break the courage of the enemy upon hearing it. The Lambeg was a monster affair, five feet in diameter and two feet thick, and the drum head was beaten with heavy bamboo rods lashed to the wrists
of the drummer by leather thongs.
It bore illustrated paintings of some Protestant victory over the croppies or a glorification of King Billy or a portrait in memory of a departed brother. No Orange Lodge would be without their Lambegs. The Ballyutogue Total Temperance Lodge was no exception.
There existed a phenomenon in our area that took place each evening around the time of the angelus. Some said it was the work of fairies, for there was no other logical explanation. A strange and sudden calm would descend followed by a queer reverse wind which blew up from the Township, carrying the most minute sounds. At that time of evening the Lambeg could shatter rocks from nearly two miles distant.
RAT A TAT TAT A TAT TAT! RAT A TAT TAT A TAT!
Conor and me would be meeting our daddies at the crossroad as they came down from the fields. The Lambeg drums seemed to be going all the time.
The four of us would just stare down to the town.
"The louder they beat their drums, the more scared they are," Tomas said.
"Aye, and that's a fact," my daddy added.
"You see, lads, they got to beat the drum to prove to themselves and each other they aren't scared and that we ought to be."
"I don't understand you at all, Tomas Larkin," I said.
"Aye, Daddy," Conor added, "why should they be scared? I mean, the Constabulary is working for them."
"Well, Kevin O'Garvey scares them. Mostly, the thought of equality scares them."
There had been rumors that the squire didn't have much use for the Orange Order, but that must have been before our meeting. No sooner had he ridden away from the hanging tree than he was spending half his waking hours in Orange Halls all over the district. I guess he must have been scared, too, because they were sure f ailing all over each other.
RAT A TAT TAT A TAT A TAT! RAT A TAT TAT A TAT!
And those fierce voices flowed up to us on the twilight winds.
It's old but it's beautiful,
Its colours they are fine,
It was worn at Derry, Aughrim,
Enniskillen and the Boyne,